


when he's not looking

by pragmatic



Category: The 100
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, cheating au, tw - bellamy is depressed a fucking lot and there's talk of physical abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 13:23:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11760798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pragmatic/pseuds/pragmatic
Summary: He'd expected to feel guilty, for sleeping with someone who wasn't his wife. But he supposed since Echo started it, it was only fair he also got to taste what it felt like to be disloyal.Surprisingly, the only thing he was worried about was his friendship with Clarke. Sleeping with ones best friend didn't always have such great side affects.





	when he's not looking

**Author's Note:**

> if i see any high and mighty comments about how this fic is morally wrong . just know that i couldn't give less of a fuck

Bellamy considered himself a fairly honest person in general; he returned library books on time, he gave back extra change that cashiers accidentally handed him, he told Octavia exactly what sex was when she asked—even if it was it's own special form of torture. He prided himself on being known as an honest guy.

So when he found out his wife was cheating on him, it's fair to say he was a little peeved about it.

He didn't catch her in the act or anything—thank _god_ —but her boss called the house, and Bellamy naturally picked it up.

"Hello?"

Her boss obviously wasn't expecting a male voice, so there was uncomfortable silence from the other end of the line for a moment. "Um, hi. I might have the wrong number—may I speak to Echo?"

"She's not here right now, but I can take a message." He didn't know why he didn't say he was Echo's husband, it just never crossed his mind.

He had been married to Echo for almost three years, and he still didn't actually feel like her husband—he saw her rarely, and the times that he did, it was either stone cold silences or throwing plates against walls fighting, they hadn't had sex since before they were married, and everything she did wedged its way under his skin.

He wasn't sure if he ever really loved her, maybe the kid that grew up poor saw an opportunity to be wealthy and jumped at it—did that make him a terrible person? Most definitely, but at least he put some effort into their relationship. And he certainly didn't go to anyone else to aid his needs.

Echo's boss paused, then cleared his throat. "No, that's alright. I just wanted to confirm our plans for tomorrow evening. I'm sure she'll call me when she gets the chance. Thank you."

Bellamy put the pen he had poised down, shrugging. "Alright, then. Bye."

"Goodbye."

On its own, the call shouldn't have been out of the ordinary—he shouldn't have thought twice about it. But if it was put beside all of Echo's particularly strange behaviour lately, (coming home late, or not at all, lies that overlapped each other sloppily, not meeting his eyes when he asked her about her plans.) and her tendency to get bored quickly—his skin began to itch.

He asked Echo what she had planned for the next day when she arrived home, and she didn't even glance at him as she lied straight through her teeth. "Planning on working late at the firm—just paperwork and stuff. I might stay at a hotel."

He narrowed his eyes, then flicked his newspaper, casually. "Ok."

The next day was Friday, and since it was a half day at the high school he worked at, he left early to see what his wife was up to.

He watched as she left the building at five o'clock sharp, an older gentleman escorting her to a car that wasn't hers, and he watched as they kissed—seemingly not for the first time.

He expected anger, or maybe sadness— _some_ sort of reaction to Echo's disloyalty. But if he was being completely honest with himself; he didn't even care.

He calmly pulled out of the parking lot, turning on the flicker on his beat up jeep. He drove home, letting this new information sink in, but even as he continued to replay the scene over and over again in his mind, he found that he almost expected this to happen. Neither of them were happy, he was kind of disappointed in himself that he hadn't thought of it first.

He parked in the driveway, but didn't cut the engine. He couldn't imagine sitting at home by himself for the millionth weekend in a row, while his wife was out fucking someone else. He slipped his phone from his pocket, pulling up his conversation with Octavia.

_want to do something tonight?_

He tapped impatiently on the steering wheel as he waited for her reply, which came a couple minutes later.

_meet me @ grounders_

He grinned, and chucked his phone on the passenger seat, pulling out of the driveway so fast he was mildly concerned that he might tip the vehicle entirely.

Grounders was a bar just outside of Ark—where he and most of his friends lived—it was the place most of his social gatherings congregated, and they served the best fucking burgers he had ever tasted. It was the only bar he felt was worth going to, given it was clean, and had never been busted for hiding a drug smuggling ring.

He parked, and jumped out, slinging on his leather jacket as he headed inside.

Octavia was situated at a circular booth in the back corner, surrounded by a few of her friends. Jasper and Monty were just permanent fixtures at Grounders at this point, Bellamy doesn't even remember a time they weren't draped across a booth dramatically, complaining about one thing or another.

"Bellamy!" Jasper slurred, already hammered. "I haven't seen you in forever!"

He frowned. "You saw me two days ago."

Jasper frowned, too. "Are you saying that isn't forever?"

Bellamy shook his head, and seated himself beside Octavia, giving her a kiss on the cheek. "Hey, O."

She elbowed him affectionately in the ribs. "Hey, big brother. I want you to meet Clarke." She gestured to the blonde sitting between Octavia and Monty.

He nodded. "I'm Bellamy."

She smiled, sincere. "Yeah, I've heard a lot about you. You're in most of Octavia's stories." She clarified.

He raised his eyebrows, turning towards Octavia, who babbled on, pretending not to have heard. "Clarke and I met at Roma's wedding, and she heard I needed a place to crash, so she's letting me rent her apartment."

He would pick Octavia's brains about the stories later, when she was drunk and vulnerable. He looked at Clarke. "Don't you need your apartment?"

She shook her head. "Not anymore. I'm moving in with my fiancé."

"Oh, well. Congratulations, I guess."

She smiled. "Thanks."

He sipped at the beer that had just been placed in front of him. "So, what do you do?"

"I'm a resident at Ark memorial—second year."

"Oh, nice. You're happy there?"

She shrugged. "I don't know if it's what I wanna do for the rest of my life, but it's a career."

He paused, letting her words sink in. Why would she waste so much money on something she's not absolutely sure of? He glanced down at her clothes; the freshly pressed blouse, the absolute boulder attached to her finger—he noticed it now.

"So you're rich." It wasn't a question.

Octavia pinched his arm. "Bell."

"What? It's obvious, if she has enough money to go around _testing out_ careers."

Clarke flushed, tucking her hair behind her ear. "My mom—she's paying for it. She was a surgeon until she busted her hand in an accident. It's what she wants—not me."

Bellamy bit back on a retort about how he _wished_ he was oppressed like that. It seemed more like a luxury. He finished his beer, and waved for another. "What would else would you be doing?"

She frowned. "Sorry?"

He leaned forward. "If your mom didn't care, and you got to choose your career, what would you be doing?"

"I, ah, I haven't really thought about it."

He knew he was being somewhat of a dick, but he was having a shitty day, and he didn't properly deal with his issues with rich people on one of his good ones. "Yeah, I probably wouldn't either, why think anything original when you don't have to, right?"

Clarke was stunned. Octavia gasped. "Bellamy. What the _fuck_ —?" She pushed him out of the booth, scooting out after him and shoving him towards the bar where he ordered another beer.

Octavia glowered at him. "Why are you being such a dick to Clarke? Especially when she's been such a great friend to me? And since when do you drink so much?"

He gulped down another bottle, slamming it back down onto the bar and wiping his mouth messily. "Since I found out that—" he snapped his mouth shut. He couldn't tell Octavia about Echo—she would want to sue her for everything she was worth, she'd want to drag her through the mud by her hair, and he just wasn't ready for it. He wanted to stew silently in his emotions and drink—a lot.

"What?" Octavia said, waving a hand in his face. "Found out what?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. I should go. Tell Clarke that I'm off my meds or something—make it creative." His wink was sarcastic.

He slapped down some bills, and all but stomped to the door, pushing through it. He'd probably apologize to Clarke if he saw her again, but right now he was too drunk and too angry to do anything about it. He was _also_ too drunk to drive, he realized with a jolt, patting down his pockets for a phone he knew he'd left inside. He glanced regretfully at the door, what was fifteen blocks, anyway?

To he and his pride's delight, Jasper came stumbling through the door, his phone clutched to his chest. "Bellamy!" He shouted, looking around. " _Bellam_ —oh hey! There you are. You forgot this."

Jasper pushed the phone into his hand, but didn't pull away. "You know, Clarke really isn't that bad. Maybe if you got to know her—"

Bellamy groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm sure she's swell, Jasper. It's been—it hasn't been a great day. She just happened to be there to catch the brunt of it, that's all." He patted him on the head, then spun him so he faced the door, and gave him a slight push towards it.

Once Jasper made it safely back inside, he dialled a cab company. They picked him up, and within ten minutes he was back home; just the place he was trying to avoid.

\---

The next morning, a hangover pounded between his temples. Last nights events washed over him, and he moaned ruefully into the pillow. He was such a _dick_.

He moped around the house for a few hours, mixing this and that into the blender to see if he could find a magical hangover cure. So far, no luck. (But if there was a prize for most disgusting concoction, he won—hands down.)

Just as he had settled in with some papers to grade, and netflix, his phone began to buzz incessantly.

Octavia's name flashed at him from the home phone, and he tossed it back onto the couch with a dull thud. He didn't feel like talking, let alone grovelling.

" _Bellamy_ ," said the message she recorded. " _Maybe now that you're sober you've realized what a complete asshole you were last night. I don't know what's gotten into you, but normally you try to get to know someone before you start judging every move they make_ —"

"I asked her questions, didn't I?"

"— _anyway, she's expecting a real apology, so I'll leave you her number for you to call._ "

He snorted. "Yeah, right."

" _Don't even think about blowing this off, big brother_." She added, before hanging up.

"Too late." He sing-songed, punching the delete message button, and dialling Miller instead; he knew how not to talk.

Bellamt didn't bother to wait for him to say hello. "Video games? My place?"

"Be there in twenty." Came his response, followed by the dial tone.

Nathan Miller had been his best friend since he and Octavia moved to Ark, he barely remembered ever not being friends with Miller; they just always were. When they first met, there was beer involved, and some light fist fighting. Both of them misunderstood where the other stood on gay rights, resulting in some physical blows as well as verbal. He doesn't remember how it was resolved, just that they both pretend it never happened.

Miller pulled up exactly twenty one minutes later, letting himself in without knocking and flopping down onto the couch, not bothering with a greeting. "COD?"

He nodded, pushing aside his papers. "COD."

They played a few games in silence before Bellamy felt the need to tell someone creeping up on him. He pushed the urge down, focusing extra hard on the screen in front of him. But he needed someone to know besides himself—he needed to talk to someone, or just someone to listen.

He stared straight ahead. "Echo's cheating on me."

Miller froze for a moment, clearly unsure of the protocol. "Um? How'd you find that out?"

"He called here, and asked for her. Said he wanted to confirm some plans they had. But when I asked her about it, she covered it up." He coughed, embarrassment blooming in his cheeks. "I went to her work, and saw them kissing in the parking lot."

Miller paused the game, giving him his full attention without actually looking at him. "Dude. What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

" _Nothing_."

"Huh." Miller slumped against the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling. "Who else knows?"

"No one."

" _No one_?"

"Dude." He levelled him with a look.

He glanced at him, and shook his head. "Sorry. _Blake_ , this blows."

"I hadn't noticed." He retorted, flat.

Miller continued as if he hadn't said anything. "Are you going to do anything about it?"

Bellamy shrugged, getting up to shuffle into the kitchen for a drink. "What can I do? There's no evidence against her, and she'll tear me apart in court; it's pointless."

Miller frowned. "There must be something—"

He shook his head. "I've gone over every possible scenario. Nothing can be done."

Miller sighed, and then abruptly, got up from the couch. "Incorrect. Drinking. _Drinking_ can be done. Come on, get your coat."

\---

He let his head bang onto the bar. "Why was I so dumb? I got married fresh out of college; I barely knew how to do my own _laundry_ , let alone how to be a husband!"

He was on his fourth—possibly fifth—drink, and it was apparent in his slurred words and flailing limbs. The bartender barely dodged losing an eye.

Miller, equally as drunk, attempted to comfort him. "Now, don't go blaming yourself, it never does anyone any good."

Bellamy lifted his head slightly to glare at his—incredibly blurry—friend. Were there always two of him? "Well, who else is there to blame?"

Miller seemed perplexed. "Maybe the one who's actually doing the cheating? She's the only making you feel all—poopy." (Drunk Miller was uncomfortable with swearing.)

" _Yes_ , okay, but if I could have made her happy, she wouldn't be off with another—oh fuck." He ducked behind Miller, spinning him so he was completely hidden from who had just walked in.

Miller reached over each of his shoulders, trying to shake off Bellamy's hands. "What— _what_ are you doing? Get _off_. Seriously, I don't enough hand-eye coordination to deal with this right now."

"Shut up!" Bellamy hissed. "Pretend I'm not here!"

Clarke, dressed much nicer than she was last night in a black, knee length dress, sat two stools down from them, throwing odd glances at Miller every so often. Her hair was loose, brushing the bottom of her shoulder blades. Miller suddenly seemed to realize the connection.

"Is that— _Clarke_? The one you—?"

"Yes. It is." He said, aggravated. "Now would you _please_ , stop _moving_."

Miller laughed, and stood, causing Bellamy to fall forward onto the now empty stool. "You're on your own for this one, dude."

Bellamy growled, and hunched over his glass, hoping Clarke wouldn't glance his way.

But fate just wasn't quite done kicking him in the teeth.

"If it isn't Bellamy Blake," she said, turning to face him. "Here for another round? Go after my dead dog this time; _that_ should last a while." She rolled her eyes, sipping her martini.

He grimaced, wishing he had had more alcohol in his system before this conversation started. "Look, Clarke—"

She held up a hand. "I don't want to hear it. Whatever excuse you have, it won't win you any sympathy—or forgiveness—from me. You can shove it right up your—"

"I found out my wife's cheating on me."

Clarke seemed stunned for a moment, unable to form words, or even close her mouth. She turned back to her martini, but he had a feeling she was waiting for him to continue. He obliged. "Neither of us were happy, so it's not like it was a big surprise, or anything. Neither of us are fit for marriage—or even commitment, for that matter. Long story short, I found them in the parking lot outside her work last night, so I wasn't in an exactly cheerful mood when I showed up here. Sorry you happened to be the person closest when I—erm, exploded." His buzz had worn off almost completely, and he felt slightly nauseous—from all the scotch, or from spilling his whole life story, he wasn't sure.

Clarke was silent, staring at her glass as if she were stuck. He had almost accepted that she wasn't going to accept his apology, when she spoke. "What did she say?"

 _Who?_ "Huh?"

"Your wife—what did she say when you found her with someone else?"

For some strange reason, he turned a brilliant shade of red at this question. "Uh," He coughed. "Nothing, actually."

Clarke spun towards him so fast he was worried she'd fly off the stool. "Nothing? She—how?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact. "Well, it's not like I confronted them or anything. I just—drove off."

Clarke suddenly looked as if something from the dumpster had wafted in from outside. "You didn't confront them? How could you not? She betrayed you, and your marriage, and your _trust_. You just drove away?"

Bellamy shrugged, a little pleased that she seemed to have forgotten all about the rotten things he'd said the night before. "This isn't going to sound the greatest, but, when I saw them—I knew I had already lost her; there wasn't a point in fighting for something that wasn't mine anymore."

Clarke stuck out her lip. "That's so fucking depressing, Bellamy, I don't even know what to say."

He let out a surprised laugh, throwing his head back with the sheer force of it. "Well, I'm sorry my _feelings_ inconvenience you!"

She threw her hair over shoulder, mock serious. "You should be. Now I have to drink twice as much just to get my buzz back."

He laughed into his drink, then raised the glass in her general direction. "To new beginnings, or some shit."

She laughed, holding up her own glass. "To new beginnings—or some shit."

\---

Clarke became a regular occurrence in his life. They got past their first meeting with no lingering bitterness on either side, and once he got over the fact that she was rich beyond comprehension—he found that he really fucking liked her. (Some would say too much, seeing as he was still a married man, but he was happy to plug his ears obnoxiously when these certain people voiced their opinions.)

Echo hadn't been home in weeks. She claimed to be on a business trip, where she didn't say, but he knew she was off traipsing with Mr. Big. ("I've never even watched Sex and the City!" He'd said when Clarke suggested the nickname. "So? No one's ever actually gotten through _It's a Wonderful Life_ but everyone pretends they have to seem educated." He'd sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That is _so_ not the point.")

All in all, his life had seemingly improved.

So of course, that was when Clarke pleasantly reminded him she was _engaged_ by cordially inviting him to her engagement party. Needless to say, his newly enhanced way of living seemed to dull slightly when the invitation arrived in his mail. He knew it was ludicrous to have any sort of feelings for Clarke, even if it was a minuscule, barely there, not even worth mentioning— _crush_.

He never said he was flourishing in the adulting department, alright?

Begrudgingly, he tore into the envelope, and skimmed over the formal writing. It was a week from saturday, and just the thought of going made him want to hurl. He had yet to meet the charming fiancé, and he wasn't planning on doing so anytime soon.

Well, that was until Clarke called him.

"Did you get my invite?" She asked, clearly excited.

He sat down onto the couch, the offensive letter in hand. "Well, I did receive an invite. But it can't be yours."

"And why not?"

He grinned. "Because this one's inviting me to _Claire_ and Graham's engagement party. I'm pretty sure your name isn't—"

"No!" Clarke nearly wailed. "No, no, no. They couldn't—they didn't—"

Bellamy was trying not to wheeze with laughter, but he was having extreme difficulty. The mad shuffling of papers from the other end of the line ceased, and he could picture the fumes rising from Clarke's ears perfectly. "They _didn't_."

"They didn't." He confirmed, but he wasn't sure if she heard him over her own shouts.

"You're such an asshole! You almost gave me a heart attack! Do you know how much those freaking things cost—?"

"Definitely more than my mortgage."

She was either ignoring him, or her rampage had temporarily deafened her, because she went on for another five minutes before she seemed to finally run out of steam. She huffed, clearly exhausted with this exuberant event.

He smiled, pleased that he had managed to work her up so easily. "It seems to me like someone is a little bit stressed about the upcoming events."

"I was, but yelling at you seemed to help."

"Glad to be of service." He said, suddenly glad no one was around to see him grinning.

"So?" She asked.

"So, what?"

"Are you coming?"

"To what?"

"To my engagement party!" She squeaked.

" _Ohhh_ ," He said, as if he could have actually forgotten. "I don't know—I mean I'll have to check my schedule—"

"Please, it won't be the same without you there."

Well now she'd gone and done it. Who could expect him to say no to that?

He sighed. "Alright. I'll be there."

"Really?" She squealed. "You won't regret it. It's going to be so much fun! The food cost a small fortune, so you know it's going to be good, and there's going to be games, and prizes—ooh! And we're going to hire a band..."

He settled in, and prepared for a long evening of party details. (He found he didn't mind in the slightest.)

\---

He was freaking the fuck out. Why did he let Clarke talk him into this? Especially when he knew this was going to happen.

"Jesus," Said Octavia from his bed. "You're worse than a girl."

He threw a shirt at her. "Shut up. And help me find something that doesn't scream 'I shop on a teacher's salary.'"

Octavia rolled her eyes, pushing him out of the way so she could survey her options. She combed through his wardrobe, wincing or grimacing every so often. Finally, she pulled out a black button up, and a pair of dark jeans. She tossed them on the bed, smiling.

"Wear those nice loafers and this is a prize winning outfit."

He scooped up the clothes, stalking to the bathroom to change. As he was buttoning up his shirt, he heard voices from the living room—Octavia must have been on the phone.

He opened the door, calling out about how fantastic his arms looked in this shirt, but stopped dead as he finally recognized the second voice.

"Bellamy!" Exclaimed his wife, who was smiling slightly too widely at him. "Were you going somewhere?"

He glanced down at his abnormally fancy outfit, and did his best to make sure his sigh was inward. "I'm just headed to a friend's engagement party. No big deal—"

"Oh, I _love_ engagement parties!" She squealed, a step away from clapping her hands in glee. "I'll be ready in five minutes."

She bounded up from the couch, and into the bedroom. He gave Octavia a _what the fuck_ look, which she responded with a _it's not my problem_ gaze. He was very close to growling, when Echo reappeared.

"I'm ready! Let's go." She grabbed a black sparkly clutch, to match her long sparkly gown. He decided to let it slip his mind that this was a casual affair they were attending.

"Let's go." He muttered, doing his best not to stomp his way to the car.

\---

The party was at Clarke's finance's house, and Bellamy felt the familiar itch of envy crawl under his skin as they pulled up. Mansion didn't even begin to describe the monstrosity standing before him.

Three balconies—that he could _see_ —,four giant pillars stood guarding the front entrance, and the entire thing was as tall as two of his houses stacked on top of one another. He felt insignificantly small.

Echo, who was used to these kind of people, strutted up to the door and rang the doorbell. He took a shuddering breath, and climbed up the stairs after her.

He didn't know who opened the door, one of Clarke's friends he presumed. She had dark hair pulled up in an intricate ponytail, which he hadn't thought was possible until now, and after she grunted politely in greeting, he noticed she had a limp as she walked away.

"So," Echo said, hanging up her coat. "Where's the blushing bride to be?"

Bellamy scanned the crowd, hoping to see a flash of blonde hair slinking through the crowd, but he didn't spot her. He shrugged at Echo, who frowned, then excused herself to get a drink.

Astonishingly glad to be to left alone, he moved along the edge of the crowd, most of which who were dancing in the middle of the room. The inside of the house was just as magnificent as the outside; an open concept living room, with a flatscreen so wide it almost hurt his eyes, and soft leather couches placed this way and that. It connected to the kitchen, which he was sure was made to look like something out of a magazine. Sliding doors led him out to the patio, where guests were huddled in small groups, drinking and laughing. It reminded him more of a college party than a formal engagement celebration.

Not seeing Clarke outside either, he headed back through the doors to find a drink. There were more than enough choices spread out on the counter, some he couldn't even pronounce. He grabbed a beer and twisted off the cap, taking a deep sip.

Not wanting Echo to catch up to him, he decided to explore the rest of the house. He found a winding staircase, and followed it to the second floor. There were four doors, two of which were closed—and locked when he tried them—the other was a bathroom. The fourth, however, was cracked ever so slightly.

He nudged it open, and found a bedroom. A dark blue canopy bed sat in the middle of the room, with matching dressers on the adjacent walls. And on the window seat, sat Clarke.

"Hey," He said, softly. "What are you doing up here all alone?"

She didn't glance at him as she spoke. "He's not coming."

His smile faded as he crept closer, and noticed that her cheeks were wet. "Who?"

"Graham." Her laugh was humourless. "He said he's not coming. I should have known he wouldn't, but I still hoped—"

A small sob wracked her body, and he moved to sit beside her, pulling her to his chest. "Hey, hey. It's alright." He soothed.

With no hesitation, her arms wrapped around his middle, and she pressed her face in closer. He rubbed idle circles on her back, not knowing the right words, so he opted for none at all. He hated the part of him that was happy he got to do this, no matter the circumstances.

"I called him," she started, and he expected her to pull away, but she only held on tighter. "I called and he started making excuses. Stupid ones, ones he _knew_ that I'd see right through—but he didn't care. And I told him that, that he was never here, and why did he even bother to propose in the first place if he was always going to be away?"

"Oh, Clarke." He dropped his chin onto her head.

"I know," she sniffled. "But I'm just so tired of him blowing me off. It's like—it's like I'm not good enough—"

He cut her off. "That's complete bullshit." He pulled away far enough so that he could look into her eyes, so that she could see how much he meant it. "You're worth the world and more, Clarke. And if he doesn't see that, he doesn't deserve to. He doesn't get to turn things around and make you feel as if it's your fault that he doesn't bother to show up. That's on him, and him alone. Alright?"

He only now realized how close they were, their breaths mingling with every exhale, their chests brushing. Her eyes were still glistening, but they were also darting down to his lips. He tried to push away the urge to close the distance between them, but it was stubborn, reminding him that it would just be so _easy_.

In the end, he didn't have to.

Clarke was the first to surge up, fusing their mouths together and raking her hands through his hair. He got over his surprise quickly enough, pressing closer until her back was pinned against the window frame. His tongue danced against her lips, and she opened willingly. He licked into her, pulling a short gasp from her throat. Her hands skimmed under his shirt, nails scratching lightly over his stomach.

Laughter floated up from downstairs, and whatever spell had come upon them was broken.

He pulled away so quickly he narrowly missed hitting his head on the frame. They stared for a moment—her lips were swollen, red, and he had a feeling his looked about the same. He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.

"We should—um, get back to the party." He said.

The dazed look on her face crumpled slightly before she nodded, and stood. He didn't meet her gaze as she passed, and she left wordlessly. He was frozen, he was in shock, he couldn't move, he couldn't _think_ —he wouldn't think. He wouldn't over analyze this; it was a moment of weakness, nothing more. They would both continue with their lives, nothing would change.

He straightened his collar, inhaled, and followed Clarke down the stairs.

Echo immediately fell all over him, putting her hands in his back pockets and slurring into his ear. A drunk Echo was a territorial Echo, and she had just witnessed him following another woman down the stairs.

Of course, Echo wouldn't never dream of Bellamy doing anything unfaithful—no one would. Bellamy was a stand up guy, someone who everyone trusted, someone who everyone knew would always do the right thing.

He started, _I'm not that guy anymore_.

\---

Echo left again for a few weeks, but he barely noticed—all of his thoughts were occupied by a little five letter word with blue eyes. He'd picked up the phone numerous times, sometimes even managed to dial her number, but he always managed to talk himself out of it before he could do anything more.

He was officially on summer holidays, and he couldn't have been more depressed.

He hadn't realized how much he confided to Clarke until he couldn't anymore. ( _Couldn't_ wasn't exactly the right word, he could if he stopped being such a chickenshit.) No one else except Miller knew about Echo's affair, and he wasn't exactly one to hash out feelings. Bellamy wasn't even sure if he knew what they were.

He went camping with Octavia and her boyfriend, Lincoln. He fished, got eaten alive by mosquitoes, felt like a third wheel the entire time, and had some of the shittiest sleeps of his life. He supposed it wouldn't have been so bad if he had someone to complain to and gripe with afterward, but—he wasn't going to think about it.

He wasn't really sure why he thought he couldn't contact her, it wasn't as if anything really happened. They were both caught up in the moment, and it didn't change anything. It also wasn't as if she hadn't tried calling him nearly every day since it happened. He'd mentioned that he was a total coward, right?

After two weeks of being completely miserable, Clarke showed up on his doorstep.

She didn't say anything, just pushed past him and picked up his phone. "Oh," She said, hearing the dial tone. "So it _does_ work." She slammed it back down again with enough force to make him jump.

"Clarke—"

She cut him off. "What? What are the excuses this time? You didn't have time? Your phone line was unexpectedly cut? You got temporary amnesia? Let's hear it! What could possibly be bad enough that you couldn't pick up the phone and leave a measly message?"

He stared at the floor, feeling like a four year old who just got caught with his hand stuffed in the cookie jar. "I don't—I don't know." His voice was barely a whisper.

"You don't know?" She crossed her arms, glaring. "Are you serious?"

"What do you want me to say, Clarke?" Suddenly he was angry, too. _She_ was the one who kissed him. _She_ was the one who changed everything.

She splayed her arms. "I want you to give me a reason! It's been two _weeks_ , and absolutely nothing. If I had known this was going to happen I wouldn't have—" she snapped her mouth closed.

"You wouldn't have what?" He asked, his tone mean. "Kissed me? Go on, _say it._ You kissed me. There's nothing more to it, you were vulnerable, and seeking affection, and I just happened to be there. It didn't mean anything—"

"If it didn't mean anything then why are you acting like it did?"

His nostrils flared, and his jaw worked. "Because—because—" he sighed, and the anger flowed out of him. "Because maybe it did mean something, I don't know what, but if I admit even that—" he shook his head, and sat down at the table. He was married, he was already committed to someone else. Granted, that someone else was an incredibly shitty wife, and person in general.

Clarke was still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, and all at once he felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. He might have been distancing himself from Clarke with good intentions, but he hadn't realized he'd also been distancing _her_ from _him_. She didn't have any real friends, especially not in the area, and he'd practically isolated her with no explanation.

He stood, taking hesitant steps toward her. "Clarke." His voice was scratchy, and entirely too vulnerable.

She looked up at him, eyes bright. "I thought that you were done—with me, with our friendship. And I was going out of my mind not hearing from you, and I know we're both involved but—god, _Bellamy_." Her voice broke. "I can't lose you."

"You won't. Jesus, you _haven't_ —" he pulled her against him, smoothing down her hair. "Clarke, we can go back to the way things used to be. You can gripe about how I'm a terrible texter and my total lack of pop culture knowledge, and I'll nag you about your eating habits; nothing has to change."

He felt her tense in his arms, and she pulled back far enough to look at him. "What if—what if I wanted things to change?"

He started. "Clarke..."

She shook her head. "I know—I know it's terrible, I know that you're married, and that I'm about to be but—what if... we just did it once, to get it out of our systems. Then we'd never have to think or talk about it again."

 _Easier said than done_ , he thought miserably. If he did what she was asking, he'd never be able to stop thinking about it. He'd be consumed by her, and he couldn't believe he was actually thinking of agreeing.

He turned away, not able to look at her and have coherent thoughts at the same time.

She brushed her fingers along his shoulder, raising goosebumps in their wake. He shuddered, and her hand traveled farther down his chest.

He gritted his teeth, shaking his head with a smile. "You're not playing fair."

She smirked against his neck. "I'm not trying to."

Her words snapped whatever leash he had managed to keep on himself, and he spun around, grabbing her and shoving her against the wall. Their second kiss was similar to the first, full of want, and fast— _greedy_ , like someone could walk in on them at any moment. He lifted her up, and she wrapped her legs around his middle. She pressed kisses down his neck, leaving his skin blazing where they touched. When she began to nip at his skin, he abruptly pulled back, earning him a whine in protest.

He shook his head. "No marks. Just—in case."

She nodded, and her lips were decidedly gentle as he carried her to his bedroom.

He hadn't realized how long he had been trying not to look at Clarke's breasts until he finally _could_. Splayed out on his bed, eyes wide and staring as he yanked his shirt over his head, fingers dancing up his side, searching for his ticklish spots. (She found one above his hip bone, and she was delighted when he let out a squeak at her graze.)

He caught her wrist, and her eyes were innocent, until he began to undress her, and then they became— _hungry_.

"Hurry up." She panted, as he dragged his tongue down the column of her throat.

He smirked, making sure she could feel it against her skin, as he travelled even slower down to her navel.

She groaned, "You suck." as she made a complete mess of his hair.

He said, "Yes. Yes, I do." and he took her nipple into his mouth.

She made a pleasant noise as he swirled his tongue around the point, his hand gently palming the other. Her hips lifted from the bed, rubbing up against his crotch, causing his mind to completely blank for a fraction of second. Using the hand that wasn't holding him up, he pinned her hips to the bed, giving her a mock disapproving look.

"You're distracting me." He nearly growled, moving to ravish the other nipple just as well as the first.

"Bellamy," She whined. "Just—get _in_ , already."

He raised his eyebrows, nipping at her ear. "You mean, you don't want to feel _this_ —" He sucked her earlobe into his mouth, enjoying the small gasp it pulled from her. "—right here?" He cupped her still covered cunt with his palm, and she ground down against it.

A slightly aroused huff was her only answer, and he grinned in triumph, settling down between her legs. He yanked off her jeans, but took his time with her underwear.

She sat up, leaning on her elbows. "Are you always this unnerving?"

With her legs thrown over his shoulders, he was able to fold his hands neatly over her belly button, and rest his chin on top. "Do you want this fast? Or do you want this good? Because I for one, could just stick it in you and be done with it—if that's what you'd rather." He hoped she couldn't see how desperately he wanted to get his mouth on her; he was certain she'd choose the quickie option just to spite him.

With no change in her neutral facial expression, she shoved his head back down just where he wanted to be, and flopped back against the bed.

"Good choice." He couldn't help but add, before _finally_ —he licked into her. Her back immediately arched off the bed, and her fingers threaded through his hair. She was unimaginably wet—considering he had only gone through half of his routine—and the noises she made had his length pressing painfully against his jeans.

He teased her clit with his tongue, had her just at the edge before he added a couple of fingers. She grappled for purchase on the sheets as she came, bucking wildly into his face. He stroked her sweetly as she came down, and when her breath evened out, he pumped her madly once more, stretching out another orgasm before pulling back to slip out of his pants.

She tugged her lip between her teeth as he sprang free. He was trying hard to not think about how he compared to her fiancé, but judging by the size of her eyes—he knew he didn't have to worry.

Tired of waiting for him to come to her, she got up onto her knees, and tugged him roughly against her. The tips of her breasts brushed his chest, and he repressed a shiver. She leaned in, and kissed him, sweeping the taste of herself out of his mouth. He pressed her back into the bed, circling her clit lazily with his fingers. He pulled away to put on a condom—delighting in the way she whimpered at the absence—and lubed himself up. He had actually forgot he even still owned these things.

He held himself over top of her with his hands on either side of her rib cage, and pushed into her.

" _Fuck_." He said, pressing an open mouth kiss to her mouth. She wrapped her legs around him, beginning to roll her hips into his.

"You're not so bad yourself." She teased, nipping at his lip.

He kissed her again, and snapped his hips faster and faster until they were both shaking. She almost started to scrape her nails against his back, but stopped at the last second, pulling at his hair instead.

"Bell—Bell—Bell—" She chanted. He'd never heard her say his nickname before, and he was sure she wasn't meaning to, just wasn't able to get the rest of the word out in time. Either way, his name on her lips brought him over the edge, and he buried his face in his neck as he came. She was right behind him, fluttering around his cock in a way that made his stomach liquify.

He was hesitant to pull out, because once he did, he wouldn't be able to touch her like this ever again, and the mere thought made him choke with frustration. But—if he stayed inside her much longer, it was sure to become awkward, and he sure as hell wasn't about to ruin what might have been the best experience of his life.

Getting over himself and his more than slightly moronic crisis, he rolled off of her, panting. He threw the crook of his arm over his eyes to stop himself from staring at her heaving chest. They were no longer touching, but they were still close enough that he could feel the warmth coming from her body. He pinched the side of his leg where she couldn't see, so he could focus on something other than rolling over and spooning her.

Eventually, the bed groaned as she got up and began to get dressed. He kept his arm secured firmly over his face.

He drifted off, but woke to the slight pressure of her touching her lips to his cheek. Without opening his eyes, he caught her wrist, pulling her back in. He sat up cupping the back of her neck, and when she didn't resist, touched his lips against hers. She kissed him back, and he ignored the sadness that lingered in it.

"Because I won't be able to do it again." He mumbled sleepily before letting her go and slipping again into sleep.

\---

He'd expected to feel guilty, for sleeping with someone who wasn't his wife. But he supposed since Echo started it, it was only fair he also got to taste what it felt like to be disloyal.

Surprisingly, the only thing he was worried about was his friendship with Clarke. Sleeping with ones best friend didn't always have such great side affects.

He kept waiting for her to call, but then he realized that maybe he was supposed to. That was the heteronormative rule, wasn't it? He hadn't dated for three years, after all. ( _You aren't dating Clarke, though._ He had to remind himself incessantly.)

He was mostly worried about how awkward it might be when they finally did talk, she had strictly specified that what happened in the bedroom, stayed in the bedroom. But it wasn't as if he could just suddenly turn off the part of his brain that drifted to Clarke almost constantly.

And anyway, that part of his brain was currently inoperable; it had short circuited the moment Clarke had left his house that day, and now it was stuck on fucking party mode.

It was mildly annoying, but it was hard to focus on that when his brain was persistently chanting Clarke's name every waking moment.

Anyway, when he wasn't on the edge of creepily happy, he was biting his nails to the quick with anxiety over the current state of his friendship with Clarke. He'd never done this, he was either dating someone, or he was friends with them. He didn't do friends with benefits for this exact reason—it was too damn confusing.

He was in the middle of his second emotional breakdown of the week when a text from Clarke came through.

_i do not understand the point of eating outside,,, it's just Asking for a bug infestation_

And suddenly, his unease evaporated as if it was never there in the first place.

He typed, _Fresh air, perhaps?_  
  
Her response was instantaneous.   
_??????? what ever could be good about fresh air???? in the summer, it's sticky and sweaty and it turns my hair against me. and in the winter???????? it literally hurts my face.  
pls, try to convince me fresh air is on the pro list_

He snorted, and typed out a quick response, and felt his heart jump in his chest when the three dots popped up. He couldn't believe he had a crush on a girl who considered fresh air a _bad thing_.

\---

To an outsider looking in, their friendship hadn't changed in the slightest; they spent most of their time together, their text chain never stopped, and they still bickered like their lives depended on it. But to him, it had changed drastically.

Every small touch had him tripping over his feet _and_ his words, even if it was just a tap on the shoulder to get his attention. Any look that lingered a second longer than usual had his fingers itching to reach over and touch her. And the teasing he'd become to so accustomed to, made his heart race faster in his chest at the thought that she noticed him to enough to poke fun at his quirks.

Right now, for instance, she had her feet in his lap, and kept glancing at him. If he happened to catch her eye, she'd smile and turn back to the tv, easy. He, on the other hand, was one step away from having to physically sit on his hands to keep from pulling her in and kissing her senseless.

Sleeping together was supposed to get it out of their systems, he wasn't supposed to want to crowd her against the couch, and wait until she was begging before he finally put his mouth on her—

" _Bellamy_? Are you ok?"

He snapped his head up, and he idly wondered how many times she'd already said his name. The movie was paused, and she had pulled her feet from his lap.

He shook his head. "I'm fine." And smiled, grabbing her feet and putting them back on his thighs.

Hesitantly, she unfroze the movie, but her glances were more often, making his neck feel prickly and hot. He traced small circles on her ankles, and slowly, she relaxed. How could it be so easy for her? How could she be so— _normal_? It was as if nothing had happened between them, and maybe for her, nothing had. Maybe she had only been attracted to him because she couldn't have him, and now that she'd had him, the novelty had worn off.

Jesus, he sounded like some insecure little tween. _Get it the fuck together, dude._

He settled against the couch, and tried to focus as Cameron Diaz sucked someone's dick, but it just didn't have the same appeal anymore.

\---

"Shouldn't you be more—I don't know—sad?" Miller asked over drinks a couple of days later.

Bellamy frowned. "About what?"

Miller nearly choked. "About Echo! She's cheating on you?"

"Oh! Right. Well. I—"

Miller squinted at him. "You're sleeping with someone, aren't you?"

He mumbled, "Not in the literal sense of the word." And downed the rest of his drink.

"Dude!" Miller punched his arm affectionately. "Good for you. I mean—it's shitty, because of the marriage thing, but otherwise—" He slurped obnoxiously, smiling at nothing in particular.

Bellamy thought he could change subjects smoothly, without Miller thinking to ask who exactly he had slept with but—

"Hey. Who is it? That you're sleeping with?" He added.

He winced involuntarily, flagging down the bartender for another round. "Um—you don't know her."

Miller, who had a sixth sense for all things bullshit, narrowed his eyes accusingly. "Then it won't be a problem if you tell me her name."

Bellamy squirmed, he hated feeling like he was being interrogated. "What's it matter? It only happened once; it's not happening again."

"It _wouldn't_ matter, if you weren't being such an assclown about it. But now my interest has peaked."

Bellamy stared at the bar. "I just don't see _why_ —"

Miller groaned, throwing his head back with the effort. "Dude, just fucking spit it _out_ —"

"It's Clarke! Ok? It was Clarke."

Miller stared, slack jawed. "The one that's—?"

"Yeah."

"And the one that you—?"

" _Yeah_."

Miller stared at the bar too. "And you don't want it to just be a one time thing."

He didn't know how he knew that, but his brain hurt too much to try and figure it out—or deny it. He sighed, "No."

"'You gonna do anything about it?"

He loosed another sigh. "Probably not."

He scoffed. "You are such a coward."

"I'm married!" He protested.

Miller laughed. "You know that shit isn't in stone. You both sign a piece of paper and it's automatically null and void; marriage is a sham."

Bellamy sipped his drink to avoid having to answer, but he couldn't help but notice that he wholeheartedly agreed.

\---

He started. "You're going on a cruise?"

Clarke nodded, swinging her feet from her perch on the counter. She had requested pancakes, blatantly ignoring that it was three in the afternoon.

"With—" he ground his teeth together "—him?" He felt the familiar stab of jealousy deep in his core, and he did his best to not let it show on his face.

Clarke shrugged. "Who else would I go with?"

"Are you sure Mr. Bigshot has the time?" He muttered, slapping the pancakes onto their individual plates.

Clarke shoved a bite three times the size of her mouth past her teeth. "It was his idea."

"And you actually want to go?" That was almost unfathomable. "Blink twice if he's holding you hostage. I have friends on the inside, we can get you into witness protection immediately—"

"Bellamy," She placed her hand on his forearm, ceasing all thoughts (and oxygen) to his brain. "I'm only going to be gone for two weeks. What's going on?"

He gripped the counter, not understanding how she didn't already know. "You're really gonna make me say it?"

She set down her plate. "He's my fiancé. You're my friend. I spend most of my time with you as it is, if I didn't go on this cruise, it'd be suspicious." She touched his hand. "It's not that I necessarily _want_ to go with him, but if we're gonna keep hanging out together—it's just something I have to do."

He nodded, leaning his hip against the counter and not bothering with a fork to eat his pancake. "Will there be cellphone service on this cruise?"

She nodded, smiling. "It'll be like I'm not even gone."

He highly doubted that.

\---

Octavia kicked him. "Why are you so mopey?"

He kicked her back. "Why's your _face_ so mopey?"

"Ha ha, good one, but I asked first."

He shrugged, and flipped mindlessly through the tv channels, his face turning more and more exasperated with every click. He was sure he'd watched anything ever made in the past ten days, and he'd gone through each of his books twice already. Being friendless, _sucked_.

"I'm just tired of doing nothing, I guess."

"Ok, so, do something." She said this like it was obvious. _She_ didn't know what she was talking about.

"There's nothing to do!" He said, throwing his head dramatically against the back of the couch. "I've watched everything interesting there is to watch, I've read everything I own—including the manuals under the bathroom sink—and I've hung out with Miller more than both of us can stand. I've done it all, Octavia. I might as well just die now."

Octavia rolled her eyes so hard he could practically hear it, and yanked him roughly from the couch. "Come on. You need to get out of the house, you need to do something. What happened to the guy to got mad at me when I said I was bored?"

"He pulled the stick out of his ass." He mumbled, begrudgingly stuffing his feet into his shoes. He knew he was being insufferable, and whiny, and needy but—he just wanted the two weeks to be over already. He was tired of only being able to talk to Clarke a few minutes a day, (the cruise had a startling long list of activities to participate in, and she was insistent on doing every single one. Even the ones like 'knitting kittens!', and 'learn how to stuff crab!'—he almost vomited just thinking about it.)

"Where are we going?" He pestered, crossing his arms and pouting like some unendurable three-year-old.

"It's a surprise." Octavia said, taking another left. They'd taken three already, and he wasn't entirely convinced they weren't just driving in a circle.

His jaw dropped when they finally pulled up to their destination.

"Bowling?" He said, incredulous. "Are you serious?"

Octavia was now grinning, nearly bouncing in her seat with excitement. "Remember when mom would leave for however long, and we'd never know when she was going to come back? This is where you always took me, so now I'm paying you back."

He climbed out of the car, trailing behind her. "Yeah, but I know how long mom is going to be gone for now," He grinned. "Perpetually."

She looked over her shoulder to roll her eyes, and his grin widened. "Dead parent jokes, they never get old." He swung his arm around her shoulders, squeezing just tight enough to make her jerk out of his grasp.

It was fun; he ate too many nachos, and barely knocked down any pins, but he enjoyed himself. It was nice, spending time with his sister like they used to. He even went like, ten whole minutes without thinking about Clarke—a world record in his book.

Octavia dropped him off at home with a small wave, yelling at him in vain to not be such a hermit. He flipped her off, and unlocked the door.

To find Clarke waiting for him.

"Hey," He said, feeling his face light up without his consent. "You're back early."

She was so silent he thought something was wrong, but suddenly she was striding towards him and taking his face in her hands and _kissing_ him. Her fingers were trembling, gripping onto his collar hard enough to let him know that she was nervous—as if she was scared the first time was actually enough for him.

He pulled back a little, and she eagerly chased his mouth. He laughed, breathless, resting his forehead against hers. "You're making me insecure in my ability to grand gesture."

She didn't laugh, or even smile, and he cradled her face in his hands. "What is it? Why are you back early?"

She dropped her eyes, which had started to water. "I—I don't want to talk about it. Yet." She added.

He felt uneasiness rise in his stomach, but he wouldn't push her. "Ok, what is it that you want to do?"

She pushed up on her toes, gripping his shoulder with one hand and playing with the hair at the base of his neck with the other. "I want—a distraction."

It was like a knife to his gut, twisting his insides into something unrecognizable. He tensed for a moment, his hands stilling on her cheeks. But her eyes were so goddamn hopeful, and right then, he knew he would never be able to say no to her.

He didn't bother with a response, just crushed his mouth to hers, walking her backwards until they hit the back of the couch. He slipped his hand down her shorts, and she arched into it, carding her fingers through his hair. He pressed his palm against her cunt, relishing in how she scratched greedily at his shirt.

She tried to take it off, but he grabbed her hands and held them still. "Not yet." He said against her ear.

She whined, but kept her hands away from his clothing, instead sliding them into his back pockets and making it near fucking _impossible_ to focus.

He rubbed her clit in slow, agonizing circles, making her gasps shorter and higher with every second. "Bell— _Bellamy_. I need—I need—"

He slipped a finger inside her, pumping her through her orgasm. She cried out, rolling her hips against his hand as her walls fluttered around his fingers.

He took his hand out of her panties, sucking her off his fingers, watching as her eyes tracked the motion.

"Can I get you naked now?" She panted, tugging at the waistband of his jeans.

He laughed, and tugged his shirt over his head. Her hands immediately descended on his chest, tracing his abs slow enough to make him shiver. He seized her hands, making her look up at him in want. "Let's finish this in the bedroom, hm?"

She nodded, and _finally_ , smiled, letting him lead her to the bed. He pushed her down onto it, and unbuckled his belt, pushing his jeans down to his ankles. He climbed over top of her, kissing down her chest to fondle her breast. He rucked up her shirt, and happened to notice a yellowing bruise above her hip.

Her fiancé's face flashed before his eyes, and he froze. She took notice of where he was looking, and scrambled to explain. "That's not—he's not—that's not from him. Not like that."

Bellamy shook his head. "You don't have to explain. If you want to—do that, with him. It's not my place to be jealous." He said, even as he felt as if jealously was all he was made of.

He was pulling back, closing off, but she grasped his wrist, stopping him. She gently tilted his chin up, so he had no choice but to look at her. Her smile was soft, knowing. "I know that. But trust me, the only person I want to fuck is you."

He covered her mouth with his own to hide his absolute _grin_ , and she scooted up farther on the bed, bringing him with her. He tugged her shorts off, and settled between her legs.

"Bellamy—" She said, trying to pull him back up. "You've already gotten me off once—"

He nipped the inside of her thigh. "And I want to do it again."

She grinned, making a show of getting comfortable against the pillows. "Get to it, then."

Normally, he'd work her up a little, start off slow and increase his speed gradually. But today—he was too worked up himself to go anything but rapidly. He got her through two more orgasms before slipping away to roll on a condom.

She sat up from the bed, and watched as he climbed onto the bed once more. "I want to be on top, this time."

He threw himself against the pillows, gesturing to his dick. "Gladly."

She beamed, and swung her leg over top of him, perching herself hastily on his cock. She seemed to have the same mindset as his, because she had barely adjusted before she began rocking back and forth against him. He gripped her hips, then skimmed one hand up to palm her breast. She threw her head back at the contact, moving her hips faster. He sat up when he was close, driving his hips into her as he kissed her. He fumbled to thumb her clit, and they climaxed at the same moment, swearing and heaving.

She pushed her hair out of her eyes, and flopped off of him. He kneaded his pillow before resting his head on it, laying on his side to stare at her.

"So are you going to tell me what happened before or after you get dressed?"

She looked at him, and rolled over onto her stomach, hugging a pillow to herself. "I don't really know what happened. It was just—too much, all at once. Graham and I never spend that much time together, and suddenly, we were trapped with each other with no breaks. And of course, I didn't know anyone else on the boat, so it's not like I could hang out with someone else, and I just—couldn't take it anymore."

He cracked a grin. "You fucking missed me."

She looked somewhat startled. "No, I didn't—"

He flipped onto his back, putting his hands behind his head. "Clarke. You think I don't know your tells by now?" He pointed to the hair she was currently twirling around her finger, and she immediately dropped it.

"I—did miss you, but that's not the only reason I came back early. Graham and I had a fight, a big one, and he started—accusing me of things, and I couldn't deal with it. And I knew you would make me feel better. Which you did."

"Orgasms," He said. "The miracle drug."

She smiled, and rolled off the bed, starting to gather her clothes and pull them on. He stayed where he was, tracking her movements. There was something she wasn't saying—but that meant there was a reason she wasn't saying it, and he had to accept that she knew what she was doing.

Even if it did torture him.

\---

There was one week left of summer, and Octavia decided that they all needed to go on a trip. And no one was about to tell her no.

Bellamy brought Echo, Miller and his boyfriend Monty, and Octavia brought Lincoln and Clarke, who brought Graham and Raven, who brought her girlfriend Gina. They were going to be staying at Lincoln's family summer house, and Bellamy couldn't have been more nervous.

He was pretty sure he could handle being in the same vicinity as Graham, as long as they didn't interact face to face, or have any contact in general. But Echo and Clarke had never hung out before, and while Echo was clueless about his relations with Clarke, Clarke was plenty knowledgeable about Echo's engagements with her boss—and she was never shy to voice her opinions about it.

(He knew that Clarke was a grown up, and could handle herself, but that didn't stop him from worrying.)

They were planning to leave for the cottage on Friday, and travel back home on Labor Day. Again, Octavia was the one making the arrangements.

Clarke texted him Friday afternoon.

_when are u and mrs. full of shit planning on arriving?_

He bit his lip to contain his grin. _Play nice._

_that was me playing nice_

He snorted. _You did bring the duck tape, right?_

_ha ha. very funny.  
seriously when are u leaving?_

_When Echo gets home from work._

_ill contain my comments about how the world doesnt revolve around her_

He laughed. _Saying them in a round about way doesn't count as not saying them._

_dammit. that was my plan for the entire week_

He smiled, and locked his phone, looking up at Echo walked through the door. He glared, calling after her retreating form. "We were supposed leave over an hour ago!"

She ducked her head out from the bedroom. "Mike just wanted to go over a few things, and we lost track of time. I won't be long."

Mike, he assumed, was her boss. But he'd never heard her call him by his first name; he was thrilled they were hitting new bases in their relationship.

Fifteen minutes later, Echo was finally ready, and they were on the road. She was reading a book— _how to: relaxation edition—_ and he was imagining all the ways he could kill himself when this trip inevitably went horrifically wrong.

The cottage was north of Ark, and took two hours if there wasn't any traffic. He and Echo didn't speak majority of the time, except for when she wanted to tell him she thought he was going in the wrong direction, and when he asked her if she'd like to drive instead.

Three hours and two minutes later, they pulled up to a fairly spacious, but humble cottage in basically the middle of nowhere.

Octavia and Lincoln were laying out on the porch in sun chairs, and they waved when they arrived. "Finally," Octavia called. "Everyone else is already here. What took you guys so long?"

He looked pointedly at Echo, who shrugged and smiled sweetly. Lincoln helped them carry in the luggage, and showed them to their room. But Bellamy froze in the entryway. He was tense about how Clarke was going to act around Echo, but he hadn't stopped to consider how _he_ was going to act around her.

He was going to have to share a room with Echo for an entire week, he hadn't done that since—he didn't think he'd ever done that. She was almost always on business trips, and when she was home for more than a weekend, they always fought, and he ended up on the couch.

He shook himself, and set the bags on the bed. This week was going to be fun—two of his favourite people were here under the same roof; he was going to enjoy it. He appreciatively looked around his room. There was a dresser, and a large window, which the queen sized bed was placed under. Echo claimed the closet for her things, and he started putting his away in the dresser. Maybe if they spoke as little as possible, he'd be able to make it to the end of the week alive.

It was almost dark by the time everyone congregated in the living room, and Lincoln suggested making a bonfire. All the boys chipped in, while the girls got chocolate and marshmallows together to make s'mores. They all sat in a circle around the raging flames, various ones cooking hotdogs and marshmallows.

"So," Gina asked. "Who brought alcohol?"

Everyone's hands shot up, minus Monty, who said he brought enough _other_ things to make up for it.

Every couple had a bottle to share between them, and when most of them were half empty, someone suggested a push up contest.

Anyone who wanted to participate got down on the ground, and when Miller shouted, "Get on with it, fuckers!", the contest began.

Bellamy found himself beside Graham, and he couldn't help but feel his competitiveness kick in. For every push up Graham managed, Bellamy had to do two more. After two minutes, his arms were starting to ache. After seven minutes, they were on _fire_ —but he wasn't going to stop until Graham did.

Soon, they were the only ones still going, and sweat was pouring down both of their faces. His chest and back were soaked, and Graham's arms were shiny with it. The other attendees were shouting each of their names, depending on who they wanted to win.

He heard Miller whisper to Monty, "What do they get out of this?"

There was a pause, then, "Pride in knowing that they're better than everyone else here?"

Miller snorted. "Yeah, that's it."

After what seemed like hours, Graham collapsed next to him, and Bellamy smirked, before shakily rising to his feet. Clarke was there with water for both of them, and he was sure he didn't imagine the glint in her eyes when she gave it to him. She hurriedly turned towards her husband to be, saying something about maybe next time.

Echo shrugged. "Good job, I guess."

He rolled his eyes, and took the towel she offered him.

It was almost 1am by the time they all headed inside, smelling like campfire, and fingers sticky with chocolate. They all broke off to their separate rooms, and Echo said she was showering first.

Bellamy nodded, and flopped onto the bed, utterly exhausted. Eventually, his mind drifted to Clarke, and wondered how they were going to make it through this week with both their spouses getting underfoot.

He sat up abruptly. What was he thinking? Clarke wasn't going to care that he was there, she might have been sleeping with him—but she was going to marry Graham. She was committed to him, she was going to be with him for the rest of her life. He couldn't believe he let himself fall for someone who was already taken—how could he be such an idiot?

"Your turn." Echo exited the bathroom, and let her towel drop at the bed. He hurriedly looked away, feeling strangely uncomfortable that his wife was naked.

He showered—thought about jerking off, but ultimately decided that it would be creepy with his wife and his mistress under the same roof—and towelled off, then pulled on some boxers.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, Echo was already in bed sleeping. His mouth felt as if it was made of sandpaper, so he pulled on a shirt before heading to the kitchen for some water. He opened the fridge, and got the jug, and then a glass.

He had just started pouring when he heard footsteps, and Clarke materialized.

"Hey," he said, already grinning.

She smiled back, and grabbed a cup, taking the pitcher from him to pour herself a glass. "Graham doesn't take well to losing, you know." She said, sipping her water.

He smirked. "You here to defend his honour?"

"No," She snorted. "That was lost a _long_ time."

"I knew it." He said, and she bumped her hip against his, deliberate.

They drank in silence for a few moments, just enjoying each other's company. Then, her hand was drifting, moving until it settled on his hip.

"I was kind of worried, coming up here." Her fingers squeezed the ticklish spot there, and he jumped, scowling at her.

"I was worried—" she continued. "—that I wouldn't be able to control myself, even with all these people here."

His heart had suddenly lodged itself in his throat, and he could barely speak around it. "Is that so?"

She nodded, pushing up against him. "And you know what? I think I was right."

And she kissed him.

Not desperate or full of want like every other time, but slow, as if they had all the time in the world. Which he knew they didn't—someone could walk down the hall and see them any second—but he still cupped the back of her neck, deepening the kiss with a tilt of his head. Her hands snaked up his back, stopping when his hair was sufficiently mussed. His hands were on her hips, ready to lift her onto the counter so her legs could wrap around him just like he liked—but he pulled back. He dropped his hands and stepped away, feeling shame curl in his gut.

"You know we can't." He said ruefully, clenching his fists to keep from pushing her up against the counter and touching her just where they both wanted.

She nodded, walking the long way around the island to get to the hallway. But she stopped, a playful gleam in her eyes when she looked over her shoulder. "Bellamy?"

"Yes, Clarke?"

"The whole drenched in sweat thing? It's a good look on you."

He ducked his head, flushing. "Thanks, I'll have to remember that."

She smiled, and he watched as she strutted down the hallway, an extra sway to her hips.

\---

The next day was a torrential rainstorm, which he supposed wasn't a horrible thing, since they were all so hungover none of them wanted to even _move_.

"I have some old board games?" Lincoln suggested. "And there's a shit ton of movies here."

Bellamy looked away as Graham put his arm around Clarke's waist and hesitantly, she leaned into it.

"What about food?" Octavia said from Lincolns lap on the couch.

"Did no one think to bring any?" Raven asked, giving the room an incredulous look.

Everyone shrugged, and Bellamy volunteered to go pick some up. "I'll go with you." Clarke said, stepping out of Graham's embrace.

"I'll come, too." Graham said, once again settling his arm against the small of Clarke's back.

"Lovely." Bellamy said, hoping no one caught the sarcasm.

The three of them piled into Bellamy's jeep, Graham immediately claiming the front seat, forcing Clarke to climb into the back. She gave Bellamy an apologetic look in the rearview mirror, which he returned with a shrug. It wasn't as if she could do anything about it.

"So, Graham," He said, conversational. "What do you do for a living?"

Graham glanced at him. "I work at an insurance firm."

 _His rich daddy probably owns it, just like in the movies_. "Yeah? How long have you been working there?"

"Since I graduated from Harvard."

He was sure he didn't imagine the emphasis on Harvard, as if Bellamy was supposed to feel inferior or something. "What's that? Ten, fifteen years ago?"

Graham smiled, but it wasn't pleasant. "Six, actually."

" _Oh_. My bad." He said, catching Clarke trying to hide her grin in the mirror.

After an eternity of more than slightly awkward pauses, and Graham doing his best to try and rile Bellamy up, they arrived at the convenience store. They picked up breakfast foods, some things to make sandwiches, dinner, and some snacks before heading to the counter to pay.

"I'll get it." Graham said, pushing away Bellamy's wallet.

Bellamy pushed back. "I volunteered to pick it up. I'll get it."

Graham's look said no one said no to him very often. "But I'm offering. Seriously, you can get the next one."

Bellamy glanced behind Graham, and noticed that Clarke was looking very awkward, and decided for her sake, he'd let this one go. "Fine. You can get this one."

Graham's smile was smug as he handed the cashier his credit card, and Bellamy stomped outside, arms laden with bags. Clarke followed him, helping unload them into the jeep. "I'm sorry about him."

"Yeah." He said, closing the door. "Me too."

Graham stepped out a second later, waving the receipt. Bellamy gave him a cheery thumbs up, then cut an annoyed glance in Clarke's direction.

They had just pulled out onto the road when Graham turned to Bellamy, his smile as fake as Echo's nose. "Bellamy, we talked an awful lot about me on the way here—let's talk about you for a while."

 _Oh, joy_. "What is it you want to know?"

"Your wife—Echo, right? What's she like?"

"She's fine, I guess." He shrugged. "She's a lawyer, basically lives at her office, goes on a lot of business trips—a typical workaholic. She lives for her job."

"That's nice. And what about you? What's your job?"

He sighed internally. He just knew that Graham was going to say something shit-tastic about his line of work. "I'm a history teacher."

Graham made a show of trying not to turn up his nose. "That's—not an awful career choice, I suppose. Do you like it?"

He gripped the steering wheel, doing his best to ignore the first part of the sentence. "I do, yeah. It's a lot of work, trying to get thirty kids to all focus at once, but—I enjoy a challenge." He didn't really mean to say it as a double meaning, but he realized it was absolutely true.

Graham pestered him the rest of the way back to the cottage until eventually, the novelty wore off. Clarke squeezed Bellamy's arm appreciatively as she walked past him onto the porch.

The rain was just a drizzle now, but everything was completely soaked, so no one was eager to go to the beach. They spent the rest of the day being completely terrible sports at board games, and watching shitty movies—sometimes turning off the noise completely and just making up their own dialogue.

By midnight, he was totally zonked, flopping into bed without even bothering to take his clothes off. Echo tutted, tugging off his boots for him herself.

But at six, he was wide awake again, unable to keep his eyes closed, let alone fall asleep. He sat up, almost upset that he wasn't still sleeping. He glanced at his sad running shoes, squished in the corner, and he suddenly had the notion to go for a walk. He tugged on sweatpants and a t-shirt, then his sneakers, squeezing out the door as quietly as he could.

When he entered the kitchen, Clarke was sitting on the counter, swinging her legs back and forth as she drank some coffee.

He was baffled. "What are you doing up so early?"

She grinned. "I wanted to see how the other half lived."

"And?" He asked. He poured himself a cup of coffee, jumping up onto the island across from her.

She shrugged. "I'm not planning on trading anytime soon." She looked down, and took in his shoes. "Were you planning on going somewhere?"

He had almost forgot. "Um, yeah, just down to the beach for a walk."

"You mind if I come?" She asked, sipping hastily at the remainder of her coffee.

He shook his head, "Sure." and they headed out the door.

There was a light fog settled over the lake, making them feel as if they were secluded from the rest of the world.

"So Graham's a real catch." Bellamy said, hands in his pockets.

Clarke shook her head. "Believe it or not, he's actually not normally like this."

He raised his eyebrows. "A condescending brat who's ego is easily bruised?"

She laughed. "Yeah, he's usually pretty mellow."

"Then what the fuck is his problem? I mean, I'm the only one who should have a problem with him—given the circumstances—yet he's acting like I killed his first born, or something."

Clarke huffed another laugh, purposely bumping her arm against his. "Hopefully, he'll get more comfortable with you by the end of the week."

He gasped, all faux giddiness. "Do you think he'll let me braid his hair?"

Clarke shoved him, and he laughed, almost doubling over with it.

"You know," She said. "When he was interrogating you yesterday, it reminded me a lot of our first conversation."

He nearly choked. "Are you really comparing me to him?"

"No, absolutely not, but I'm just saying—"

"That's he intimidated by me?" He interjected, incredulous. "Like I was with you?"

Clarke glanced at him. "You were intimidated by me?"

He stared at the ground, a flush rising i his cheeks. "Yeah, I guess. A little. You were so gorgeous sitting there, and then you tell me you were going to be a doctor, and on top of it all you were filthy rich—it was a lot for me to handle, especially after the day I'd already had."

"I was really disappointed," she grinned. "When you turned out to be such a dick."

He laughed. "Oh really? And why is that?"

"Because you always seemed so perfect in your sisters stories! And I didn't have any friends, and I figured that maybe if you liked me, you could show me around—"

"Oh! So you were only going to befriend me because of my state of localness! I can't believe that you were going to use me, Clarke. I'm hurt. Really."

"Whatever. You thought I was gorgeous."

 _I still do_. On the lake, the fog had lifted, just enough that he could see a family of ducks wading in the water. He pointed this out to Clarke, and they stood, watching them for a while.

After a moment, he felt her fingers wrap around his, and they stayed like that for the rest of their walk.

\---

By wednesday, everyone at the house had gotten into somewhat of a routine. They stayed up late around a bonfire, drinking and doing stupid dares. Most woke up by ten, feeding themselves then heading down to the beach for majority of the day. (He and Clarke continued their walks every morning, trying to find the ducklings from that first day.) Someone barbecued for dinner every night, and repeat.

(Graham had decided to just pretend that Bellamy wasn't there, and Bellamy was completely fine with this arrangement.)

Until of course, on thursday, Lincoln suggested they go on a fishing expedition. Bellamy convinced Miller to come, but Monty flat out refused, and instead encouraged Graham to go in his place.

Bellamy elbowed Miller. "I'm surprised he knows what a fish looks like when it's not in sushi form."

Miller snorted, and loaded the last of the gear into the boat.

\---

"What the _fuck_ happened?" Clarke said, arms crossed and face _furious_.

Bellamy flicked his sopping wet hair out of his eyes, and immediately rolled them as Graham dramatically rung out his shirt. "Why don't you ask _handsy_ , over here?"

Bellamy scoffed. "Handsy—how original."

Since Lincoln and Miller were both miraculously dry, it was quite obvious what had gone down whilst they were on the boat. Clarke did everything but take both of them by the ear and drag them inside.

Graham, being the inconsiderate dick that he is, sat down on the couch, drenched clothes seeping into the fabric. Bellamy leaned against the doorway, anger still thrumming in his fingertips. He couldn't believe Graham could just _say_ that—

Clarke tapped her foot, waiting for someone to offer up an explanation. "Well? Does anyone have anything to say?"

Graham shot a menacing glare in Bellamy's direction. "I would, but I don't really know what happened. Suddenly, he just went crazy, and started shoving me around—"

Bellamy slammed his fist into door frame, startling both of them. "Don't you _dare_ act like it wasn't provoked."

Graham glowered, but didn't speak again, and silence filled the room. Clarke glanced between them, and finally sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Graham, go get cleaned up. I'd like to talk to Bellamy."

Graham stood, and entered his room wordlessly.

Bellamy didn't meet Clarke's eyes, but he felt his temper dull slightly when she stood in front of him, and touched her fingers to his chin. He looked at her, a sad smile on his face. "You've got to stop doing that; you're going to get us caught."

She took her hand back. "What did he say to you?"

He shook his head. "It was what he said, period."

"About you?"

His jaw clenched. "About _you_."

Clarke's mouth slackened, and she took a step back. "Oh. What did he say?"

"I'd really rather not repeat it."

She crossed her arms. "Paraphrase it, then."

He sighed. "He said that—" He lowered his voice. "He said that you were needy, and that he was glad for the break."

She nodded, as if she expected it. "And what did you do?"

"I asked him to repeat himself, not thinking that he actually _would_ , and then I—" He cut himself off, huffing. "—I told him that he should feel lucky, to be marrying you, and when he scoffed I—kind of lost it. I shoved him, and he shoved me back, and when I hit him, we both fell off."

He looked up, and saw that tears were starting to well up in her eyes, and he moved to touch her. "Clarke, I'm sorry, I—"

She stepped back, shaking her head and wiping her eyes. "It's fine. Thank you—for defending me—but I think I need some time alone."

He nodded, letting his hand drop. She closed the bathroom door behind her, and he was left, once again, wishing that he had never come on this trip.

\---

Friday and Saturday were sullen, everyone in the house tiptoeing around each other, afraid to spark up something else.

On Sunday, Octavia suggested everyone get ready to go on a hike. Absolutely no one wanted to, but they kept their mouths closed when she began death glaring the entire room.

Begrudgingly, they all gathered water bottles and their comfiest clothes, and began hiking up the small mountain behind the cottage.

All the couples paired off together, Bellamy and Echo not speaking as they walked. Clarke and Graham were ahead of them, and he noticed that while Graham was attempting to start up a conversation, Clarke wasn't even glancing at him. He felt a sick swell of pride in his stomach as Graham began walking with his head down. Octavia and Lincoln were leading, with Miller and Monty behind them, and Raven and Gina pulled up the rear.

"The path gets really narrow here!" Octavia called. "Walk in a single file line!"

The group shifted, and Clarke ended up directly in front of him. The path tapered off, and soon they were walking on the edge of a cliff. Rocks skittered down the side as they were dislodged, and everyone had gone quiet, focusing on their feet placement.

It happened in the blink of an eye. Clarke had been watching a bird fly by, and instead of her foot landing on the path, it landed beside it. She let out a screech, and was about to fall completely off the cliff—

Bellamy seized her arm, wrenching her back from the edge with enough force that she plowed directly into his chest, making him stumble backwards. He clutched her arms, checking her over for any injuries.

"Thank you." She said, breathless.

He smiled, relieved. "Not a—"

Graham swooped in, pulling Clarke from Bellamy's embrace and crushing her to his own chest. "Oh my god, I thought you were a goner."

Subtly, she pushed away from him. "Thank god Bellamy was there."

He caught her eye, and grinned, and she beamed right back. His eyes trailed down her leg, and he saw blood.

"You're bleeding." He said, and she glanced down to where he was pointing.

"Oh, I should probably—take care of that." She said, already starting to hobble back.

Bellamy and Graham both stepped up. "I'll go with you." They both said.

They looked at each other, and while Bellamy showed no emotion on his face, Graham seemed to be sizing him up without realizing it. Clarke cleared her throat.

"Graham, you might as well stay here—Bellamy has more experience with this kind of thing." She gestured to Octavia, who curtsied.

Bellamy fought the urge to stick out his tongue as he followed Clarke back down the path, a protective hand on the small of her back.

Once they were out of ear shot, he stopped her with a hand on her arm. He thumbed at her cheek, his heart still hammering in his chest. "Clarke, if you had—"

She cupped his hand with her own. "I know, but I didn't. Thanks to you."

He pulled her closer, glancing down at her lips. "It was more of an instinct than anything," He pressed his lips against hers, and she stepped into him, curling her hands into his hair.

When she stepped back, she stumbled a little, bringing him back to reality. "Shit. Right. Bleeding out. I should carry you."

She laughed. "Bellamy, I don't need you to carry me, I'm totally capable of—" she stumbled again, and he raised his eyebrows at her.

"Well stop gloating and get over here."

He grinned, smug, and stood in front of her, hoisting her onto his back. She wrapped her arms loosely around his neck, and he set off towards the cottage.

He felt her tracing the freckles on his neck, and he hoped that his goosebumps weren't noticeable. "You have a birthmark, right under your hairline." She said.

He craned his neck to look at her. "Is the blood loss making you loopy? You've seen that birthmark a hundred times before."

"Yes, but I've never told you how much I love it. I _love_ this birthmark, Bellamy."

He snorted. "I'll tell it you said so."

"Thank you," She said, genuine, resting her head on his shoulder. "That would be appreciated."

\---

Graham approached him as he was packing the jeep, the bruise where he decked him was finally fading, and Bellamy couldn't help but feel a little nostalgic about it. It was some of his best work.

Graham wrung his hands, as if he was nervous. Good. "I just wanted to ask why you lied, to Clarke—about what I said on the boat."

He jammed a duffle bag with slightly more force than necessary. "I figured she didn't need to know that her fiancé thought she was going to be a total failure in her career choice."

He cupped the back of his neck. "Well, thank you, I guess."

Bellamy glared, feeling every fibre in his body stand on end. "I didn't do it for you." He spat. "I did it for Clarke. She should figure out what a total dick you are without my influence."

Graham muttered, "I'm pretty sure she already has it."

Bellamy pretended to not have heard him.

The problem was, Bellamy agreed with Graham, on some level. Clarke would excel in whatever she did, but she wasn't passionate about medicine—not like she was with her art. And he was afraid that she was going to be unhappy for the rest of her life, if she ultimately decided to go through with it.

He slammed the hatch shut, thoroughly exhausted with thinking for the day.

\---

School started up the next day, and he didn't realize how much he'd missed it until he was there, waving at seniors who adored him, and redirecting lost freshmen. He enjoyed having a routine, he enjoyed doing something productive with his days.

Clarke was busier than ever, working almost forty hour shifts, and she was completely dead on her feet. When they did see each other, it mostly ended with them on the couch, her drool on his arm. He didn't mind; he simply carded his fingers through her hair, smiling when she shifted closer to him in her sleep.

Before anyone knew it, Halloween was almost here, and Clarke was flabbergasted when he said he didn't have a costume.

"Halloween is a big deal!" She said, pawing through the racks at Walmart. "Raven has a party every year, and it's always _amazing_. Monty makes some concoction—never ask what's in it—and Gina bakes these awesome shape cookies. And, of course, everyone has fucking brilliant costumes—they really go all out. And you're going to feel extremely out of place when you show up in jeans and an N-Sync t-shirt."

He planted himself behind her, hands resting on her hips, and nose nuzzling her neck. "Let's make a deal. I'll dress up for you next week, if you dress down for me tonight."

She smirked. "I think that can be arranged."

"Good. Now we can go over why you would ever suggest that I would wear anything but the Backstreet Boys."

\---

"Bellamy—Bellamy— _harder_." She groaned, hiking her leg up to try and find a better angle.

He made his thrusts bigger, grunting with the effort. She palmed his ass, and suddenly her eyes went wide. " _Yes_ , right there, right—"

"Bellamy?"

Echo's voice floated in from the front door.

They looked at each other, and then they were scrambling to try and hide Clarke as fast as humanly possible. "What is she doing home?" She whispered furiously, as he tried pushing her into the closet.

"I don't know! Wait, wait, she sometimes looks in the closet."

She stepped towards the bathroom, only to have him pull her back again. " _What if she has to take a piss_?"

"Bellamy?" Called Echo's voice again.

"Fuck!" Clarke whisper-shouted, dancing around almost comically.

Bellamy gasped. "Under the bed! Under the bed, go, go, go."

Clarke pushed against his hands. "I am not going under your bed, _stark naked_!"

He huffed, and yanked his t-shirt over her head, then shoved her down just as Echo opened the door.

"Hi, honey." He said, feeling as if there was a sign above his head pointing to Clarke's hiding space. "What are you doing home?"

She looked at him, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. She headed towards the bathroom, and he kicked under the bed smugly. "I forgot I had a big meeting today, and I need a different outfit."

He swallowed his questions about her current outfit, hoping the less conversation they had, the faster she would leave. Echo furrowed her brow. "Why are you naked?"

"Oh! Um—" He scratched the back of his neck. "I was just—taking a nap."

She raised her eyebrows. "With no clothes on?"

He nodded. "I feel... less constricted that way."

He swore he heard Clarke's soft snort from under the bed, but that might have been his imagination.

Finally, after Echo had gathered what she needed, he bid her goodbye, and slumped heavily against the door. Clarke slid out from underneath the bed, and he registered how much he liked her wearing his clothes.

"So," She said, twisting the fabric around her finger. "Back at it?"

He grinned, and jumped on her, pinning her to the bed and picking up where they left off.

\---

Clarke dressed him up like James Potter, and she was going to begrudgingly dress Echo like Lily Potter, but to her delight, his wife was out of town.

He felt absolutely ridiculous, holding a wand and wearing a pointy hat, but Clarke beamed as they entered the party together. She had dressed herself as Regina George from Mean Girls, complete with the neck brace and everything.

It wasn't much more than a small gathering with Raven and Gina's friends, but the music was loud enough to make them feel like they were at a club.

"Regina," He said, serving them both some punch. "How am I supposed to push you against the wall in secret with that contraption getting in my way?"

She smirked, sipping her punch. "You'll just have to get creative, James."

"Maybe I'll cast a spell, or something."

She laughed, and pulled him out to the makeshift dance floor, the last thing he remembered was his hat falling off, and Clarke picking it up to wear it herself.

\---

Thank fuck Halloween fell on a Saturday this year, he definitely wouldn't have been able to hide this hangover on a school day.

He had just settled in with a few documentaries and the greasiest food he could find, when Clarke called him.

He picked it up, smiling. "Hello, Clarke."

"Does your head also feel like a tiny, extremely angry construction crew is trying to renovate your brain?"

He paused, pretending to think about it. "You know, I might have a small inkling what you mean."

She laughed. "So. Octavia tells me something big is coming up."

He snorted. "Dirty."

"Your birthday! It's next week! Why didn't you tell me? Now I'm going to be rushed to plan and of course it has to be perfect—"

He sat up. "No, no, no. Clarke, I'm really not into birthday's. My mom never made a big deal out of them when I was younger, and she kind of passed that tradition on."

He could practically hear Clarke frowning. "But that was before you met, _me_."

He sighed. "It's not really gonna matter what I say, is it?"

"Nope. Sorry. This is going to the best birthday of your life, whether you like it or not."

"Can't wait." And he meant it.

\---

Clarke decided that instead of a giant party, they'd simply go to dinner, and he should have known they were throwing him a surprise party right there, but—he was clueless.

He and Miller were carpooling, and they were just passing Bellamy's house when Miller said he needed to take a piss. "Ok, but hurry up! Clarke made reservations and everything!"

After five minutes, he was antsy. After ten minutes, he was impatient, and he stomped up the stairs to see what could possibly be taking Miller so goddamn long when—

"SURPRISE!" Everyone shouted when he opened the door, giving him a well deserved heart attack.

Clarke bounded up to him, absolutely beaming. "Were you surprised?"

He gave her an one armed hug, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I almost popped a blood vessel when Miller was going to make us late for your reservations."

She grinned. "You were completely oblivious."

He walked farther into the entryway, her still tucked to his side. "Unfortunately, yes."

They walked around, Bellamy greeting the guests, and thanking them for coming. Clarke flitted around behind him, occasionally laughing maniacally about how she managed to pull one over on him.

("Yes, you are a criminal master mind. We should all be so lucky to be in your presence." She nodded. "I should think so.")

When they brought out the cake, and began singing happy birthday, Clarke hugged his side, singing the loudest out of anyone. He felt like a dam near bursting—he'd never been so happy.

\---

"There's this Harry Potter marathon running on 403, I was thinking you could come over and we could watch it." He said into the phone, as he organized the books on his coffee table.

Clarke sighed. "I'd love to, but there's some things I have to do today."

He furrowed his brow. "Like what?"

"Just—things. Maybe next time?"

He was disappointed, yes, but he was more concerned. Clarke never passed up the opportunity to watch Harry Potter, let alone for chores. "Yeah. Next time."

He hung up, feeling a strange notion stir in his gut that something was wrong. She didn't seem panicked, she seemed—distant. And now that he thought about it, she'd been like that all week. Had he done something? Said something, to push her away? Did it have anything to do with him at all?

He called Raven. "Reyes speaking. Shoot."

"Hey, Raven."

"Oh, hey Bellamy. What's going on?"

He sat down on the arm of the couch. "I don't know, really. Is something up with Clarke? She's been acting—different. Did I do something or—" _You know, other than sleeping with her._

Raven sighed. "Shit. I forgot. It's the 22nd, isn't it?"

He nodded, then remembered she couldn't see him. "The 22nd of November, yeah."

"This is the day her dad died."

It was his turn to swear. "Fuck. I had no idea—"

"She didn't really want you to. She hates pity. She normally likes to stay home and drink all day, she just needs some space right now."

"Yeah, you're probably right. Thanks, Raven."

He made it all of five minutes before he was grabbing his jacket and heading out the door.

She opened the door, eyes red and still in her pyjamas. Her hair was up in one of those messy buns, and she was clutching a vodka bottle. His chest ached. "Raven told me." He said, not moving to step inside.

She nodded, rubbed her eyes, not saying anything. He sighed. "I shouldn't have come. I just wanted to make sure you were alright, and that you didn't need—"

She threw herself into his arms, and he staggered back slightly before wrapping his arms around her, too. She breathed in deep, and he squeezed, putting his face against her neck. "You wanna come inside?" She asked against his chest.

He nodded, and pulled back, stripping off his jacket and following her to the living room. They sat on the floor, leaning against the couch with a wine bottle between them. They traded sips, him waiting for her to talk when she was ready.

Eventually, she sighed. "Remember when we first met, and I told you my mom hurt her hand in an accident, and that was why she wasn't a surgeon anymore?"

He nodded. "Well," She continued. "My dad was also in the accident—and he wasn't so lucky."

He squeezed her knee, silently urging her to continue. "They were driving to a writing convention of his, and it was storming horribly. He lost control, and his side of the car slammed into a semi." She shuddered. "The doctors said he died instantly, that he didn't feel any pain but—"

"What do they know, right?" He said gently, trying out a smile.

The corner of her mouth turned up, and he counted it as a victory. He took another swig of wine, wiping his mouth messily. "My mom died when I was 17, and it was the worst year of my life. Not because—this is going to sound bad—but I didn't miss her. She was barely around, and I paid most of the bills, and I'd been looking after O ever since I can remember. It was the worst year of my life because Octavia had to go into foster care until I was a legal adult and I could look after her. I had to have supervised visits, and it felt like a bullet through my chest every time I had to leave her behind." He shook his head. "I'm saying all this as an indirect way to say, I know what you're going through—on some shitty level."

She half smiled, and moved until her head was leaning against his shoulder. "I'm bisexual."

Surprisingly, he didn't startle. "Really?"

She shrugged. "I felt like someone should know, and I'm too drunk right now to keep it a secret."

He smiled, and hugged her closer. "That's cool, because I'm pan."

She looked up at him, disbelieving. "Did you and Miller used to—?"

He nodded, laughing. "That's how we met. We hooked up at a party, and when we realized we didn't want to date each other, we just kept hanging out." He decided to leave out the fist fighting.

She huh-ed, leaning back against him again. "Was that your first time with a guy?"

He shook his head. "No, I was a lot of people's gay awakening in high school."

She laughed, hitting his chest lightly. He squeezed her, "What about you?"

She sighed, but it was content. "There was this girl—Lexa—in high school. But she was still in love with her best friend, Costia, and didn't know it. I broke up with her just because I knew she'd never figure it out on her own. I hooked up with a few other girls after that, nothing serious, and then _Finn_ came along."

He furrowed his brows. He'd never heard of Finn before. "You say that like I wouldn't adore him or something." He teased.

She laughed. "Oh, you would have _loved_ him. He's how Raven and I met. He was cheating on both of us, and when we realized, we dumped him and got each other."

"Well, that's one for the story books."

She grinned. "We thought so."

There was a pause, and then he said what they were both thinking. "And then came Graham."

She stiffened, and sat up. "Yeah. And then came Graham."

He fought with himself for a moment, before asking the question he'd been dying to know ever since he met the guy. "Why are you marrying him, Clarke?"

She exhaled. "Bellamy—"

"Just tell me." He murmured, sitting up. "Maybe you see something in him that I don't." He doubted it, but it was worth a shot.

She had taken out her bun, and was now dragging a hand through her loose hair. "It's not what I see in him—it's what my mother does."

He frowned. "I don't understand—"

"She set us up, thought we were soulmates or something. And I thought, maybe if I married someone she approved of, she wouldn't be so offended when I dropped out of my residency."

He raised his eyebrows. "You're dropping out of your residency?"

She smiled. "Yeah, I'm pursuing an art career."

" _Clarke_." He exclaimed, tugging her until she was against his chest again. "That's amazing. I'm so happy for you."

She nodded, and pulled back, still smiling a little. He remembered his first question. "But you can't throw your personal life away just so your mom won't be a dick about your career choice."

She shrugged. "It's already done. The wedding is set for June, plans are in place—it's a done deal."

He let his head drop onto the couch. "He doesn't deserve you." _No one does._

She didn't reply, just took his hand in hers, and held it until the wine bottle was empty.

\---

He was pathetically alone for Christmas, even if it wasn't in the literal sense. He was spending it with Lincoln and Octavia, and their new german shepherd, Fang. But he felt out of place.

Clarke was spending the holiday with her mom, and Miller was taking Monty to meet his dad—everyone seemed to paired off except for him. Echo said she would try to be home for Christmas Eve, but it sounded unlikely—not that he really wanted to spend it with her, either.

He spent his two week vacation preparing for next term, and sitting on the couch watching things that made his brain melt.

On New Year's Day, a package arrived at his doorstep, with a handwritten note attached.

_Sorry this is a little late, it had be to absolutely perfect_

_C_

He was grinning as opened it, almost giving himself a paper cut in the process. Anxiously, he pulled out a picture frame with a drawing in it.

It was of him, on Halloween, dressed up as James Potter, and it was _amazing_. She had put a lot of work into this, even getting the cluster of freckles near his eye near exact.

He called her immediately, of course, hoping she'd also gotten his present. They'd both been busy—and by _they_ he meant _she_ —and hadn't had much time to talk to each other. He shook the envelope out, and a gift card for Chapters fell out. She knew him so well.

"Hello?" She said when she picked up.

"Hello." He said. "I got your gift."

She squealed. "Yes! Finally! Do you like it? It took me forever to get it just right."

He laughed. "It's perfect. I wish I looked this good."

He didn't realize that it sounded like he was fishing for a compliment until there was an awkward pause from the other end of the line. "Um, anyway," He coughed. "Did you get my present?"

" _Yes_. I love it. How did you remember those were the ones I wanted?"

He shrugged. "Good memory, I guess."

It wasn't a complete lie, he did have a good memory, but that wasn't why he knew exactly what to get her.

They had been in an arts and crafts store a few weeks ago, and Clarke had nearly died when she saw a set of watercolours, with special paper so that it didn't run. She figured it was too close to Christmas to buy them for herself, so she'd left them behind. But what she didn't know, was that he'd gone back and picked them up the exact same day.

"Well," She said. "However you remembered, I was through the roof when I opened them."

"Good. The whole point was to give you a head injury, after all."

She laughed, and they talked about her trip, how awful her mom was being behind all of her seemingly kind words. He told her about Fang, and how he was going to kidnap him and keep him for himself.

When they hung up, he was feeling increasingly better about his life.

\---

Second term started, and he was glad for the distraction; Clarke was constantly busy planning her wedding lately, so he needed something to keep his mind off thinking of ways to ruin it.

His new classes were smart, and actually answered the questions he asked instead of looking around dumbly at each other. They payed attention to what he taught, and aced most of the tests he gave them—they were brilliant.

But even with all this greatness going on in his life, he still felt miserable.

Of course, he knew why, because pretty much any emotion he felt was because of Clarke, or was at least associated with her.

The whole having her, but not really having her thing was getting to him, and she hadn't noticed yet, but she would soon enough. And he didn't know what he was going to do once she did.

Did he tell her how he felt? That he'd been feeling it for months, and he hadn't had the decency to tell her? That despite her specifically stating that she didn't want any complications, he still let it become something else in his mind? What would she do? He'd probably get a good punch in the face, if he knew anything. What good could possibly come out of telling someone you have feelings for them, when it wasn't reciprocated?

"Absolutely nothing." He answered himself, angry that he had let it go on this long.

He'd known that he'd never be able to have Clarke—even if she wasn't engaged, she would never feel for him what he did for her—and still, he let himself hope. He allowed himself to fantasize having something more than light fucking with her; a life, possibly even a dog. But the problem with fantasies was that they never actually came true—and they left you feeling even more alone than you did before.

\---

"Bellamy? You ok?"

Clarke was straddling his dick, and he had managed to completely zone out.

"Yeah, I'm good." He answered, feigning a smile. "Why do you ask?"

She put her hands on her hips, making her chest push out a little more, and causing his dick to twitch inside her. "You just seem a little out of it, that's all."

He put his hands on top of hers, then ran them up her sides. He shrugged. "Well, I'm fine. Let's go."

When she didn't move, he started jerking up into her. "Come on, back at it."

She still seemed concerned, so he sat up, and kissed her, long and dirty. She was much more focused after that.

\---

Valentine's Day was steadily approaching, and Clarke was finally beginning notice his less than subpar behaviour.

They were nestled against each other, something they never did, and he took it as a sign to ask the question that'd been burning a hole in his head. "So, for Valentine's Day. I was thinking that maybe you and I could—"

She sat up abruptly, starting to get dressed, and decidedly did not look at him. "Graham made us reservations for Valentine's Day."

"Oh. Obviously. Of course he did. Why wouldn't he?" He felt embarrassment burn the tips of his ears, and he threw his forearm over his face.

She pulled on her shirt, and stood. "He just—he made them a long time ago and—"

"It's fine, Clarke. I don't know why I even suggested it." He got up as well, starting to pull on his boxers.

"You're upset."

"I'm not upset. Why would I be upset?" He lowered his voice. "After all, I'm just a distraction."

She froze for a second, then crossed her arms, her go to defensive pose. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He glanced up at her, and shook his head. "Nothing."

"No, why don't we get everything out in the open?" Her voice was venom. "You've been acting weird for weeks, and I've tried ignoring it, but I can't anymore. Just—tell me what's wrong."

Her words were so innocent, as if she had no idea what was going on beneath the surface, and something in him snapped. "You want to know what's bothering me? You really want to know why I've been unhappy for—I don't even know how long?" He jammed his finger into the comforter, punctuating each word. "I am so sick, and tired, of only being able to touch you, and talk to you when he's not looking. I thought I could handle being just your stress reliever, but I am so over my head," His laugh was humourless. "I don't even know which way's up anymore."

Her nostrils flared. "Well if you're so unhappy, why don't you just leave?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Is that what you want?"

"Is that what _you_ want?"

He ground his teeth together; that was the farthest thing from what he wanted, he'd rather have some part of her, than nothing at all. But his pride was getting the better of him, and he wasn't backing down. "You know what? Maybe it is."

He gathered the rest of his clothes, forgetting that it was below zero outside, and stomped out to his jeep. He ignored Clarke's scream of frustration, and the way his tears froze on his cheeks when the cold air hit him.

\---

He was drunk when Echo got home on Valentines Day, drunk enough that she looked very appealing as she walked down the hall. He hesitated, before staggering after her.

She glanced at him. "You smell—lovely. Could you unzip this?" She turned her back towards him, and he slid the zipper down to just above her ass.

He grazed his fingers along her spine, and helped her slip the fabric off her shoulders. Feeling bold, he mouthed at her shoulder, lifting her hair so he had better access to her neck.

He expected her to push him off, claim that she had a stress headache and ask him to get her a pill.

But instead, she leaned into it, coaxing him along and rubbing her backside against his crotch. He unclipped her bra, and paused, waiting to see if she'd come to her senses, but she wiggled out of it, and turned to him.

She tugged at his shirt, asking, and he raised his arms over his head as she pulled it off. He wouldn't compare her every move to Clarke, he wouldn't compare her every move to Clarke—

He leaned in to kiss her, but she pulled back. "Not—no kissing."

He was relieved. "Fine with me."

He pushed her roughly onto the bed, and yanked down his jeans and boxers. She was pulling off her underwear as he climbed on top of her, and fucked her from behind.

There was no— _feeling_ to it. He didn't want to make sure she came two or three times before he did, he didn't want to get his mouth on her, he was used to wanting to make it last—but now that he had started, he wanted it to be over as soon as possible.

She cried out, gripping the bed sheets, and he was right after her.

There were no lingering touches, and as soon as he pulled out, she crawled to her side of the bed and slipped under the covers. He got under the covers too, after he put his boxers back on. Usually, there was an after orgasm glow that he had. He felt a little better about the world, and he always felt the urge to snuggle—even if he never carried through with it. He'd thought that there was some small part of him that still loved his wife, but now, he was beginning to wonder if he had ever cared about her like that.

\---

The worst part about cheating, he was coming to realize, wasn't the obvious moral problems he was clearly dealing with, or the possibility of getting caught. It wasn't even the secrecy; the feeling as if you're all alone because it's not like you can tell anyone what you're doing.

It was when the cheating stopped, and the after effects followed.

No one knew what he and Clarke had been doing, so therefore they were also clueless when they stopped.

Of course Miller knew, but he didn't know the whole story. He didn't know that Bellamy wanted more than sex, and had ultimately pushed her away completely instead of telling her.

It was torture, having to go to Grounders, and see her there, acting as if nothing had gone on between them. He used to look forward to seeing her outside of a bedroom, but now it was something he dreaded.

He was absolutely furious with her, mad that she had given him just enough to make him fall for her, mad that she'd only ever see him as a dirty secret to keep. And most of all, mad that whatever they'd had before they started sleeping together, was never coming back.

He didn't want to miss her, or think about how he should have just left well enough alone. All he wanted to do, was push her until she finally showed some goddamn emotion.

It felt like a game; how many times could he faintly insult her in one sitting before anyone else caught on?

It began at Octavia and Lincolns house warming party.

They had just moved in together, and had invited everyone over for dinner.

Clarke and Bellamy were sat next to each other, and he swore his body almost naturally recoiled. She looked beautiful, of course, and that only made him more angry.

"Nice dress." He said, low enough that only she heard. "Did your mother have to approve that, too?" 

She glared at him, and turned to Raven, who was on her other side, ignoring him completely. He stuffed some potatoes into his mouth, disgustingly smug.

It continued at the bar the next week.

She split her drink on him, accident or not he wasn't sure, and he shook his head as he dabbed at the stain. "There you go, always ruining everything."

She turned away, and he hated the way his heart twisted up at the hurt look in her eyes.

The next time they were together, she had caught on to his ploy, and decided she wanted a run at it.

Octavia had been telling a story about Bellamy as a kid, involving that time he'd found a dead kitten in the backyard, and burst out crying over it. "That's Bellamy," Clarke said, sipping her wine. "Always such a cry baby."

He did his best to seem unaffected, but he felt his neck burn under her gaze. He chuckled good heartedly with everyone else, and he avoided Clarke's gaze for the rest of the night.

\---

(He and Echo didn't talk about what they'd done, in fact, they talked even less than they had before—if that was even possible.

They carried on normally, her pretending to go on business trips while he knew right well _who_ she was really doing. It was almost funny, how it didn't bother him. He didn't want to bash the guy's teeth in, or get revenge in any way, really. He just—didn't care. He wasn't sure how long he was going to let it go on for, but he knew he wasn't going to be able to pretend this wasn't his life forever.)

\---

It wasn't very often that someone actually knocked on his door, Octavia and Miller let themselves in, even when he wasn't home. And it was rare that he ordered take out, mostly because he was stuck in his ways about how expensive and unnecessary it was.

So when someone did knock on it, he was surprised, and opened the door completely unprepared for who was on the other side. (Half of him foolishly hoped it would Clarke standing there, wanting to reconcile.)

"Hello." The man said, wringing his hands. "Are you Bellamy Blake?"

He crossed his arms, sure that he was selling bibles or something. "Depends who's asking."

"Well, uh, this is going to sound crazy, but my name is Rosauro Santos, and I'm your—father."

Bellamy leaned his forehead against the door. "Listen, I'm really not in the mood right now. Did Octavia put you up to this? Are you in her weird acting class? If so, please just go away—"

Rosauro shook his head, looking genuinely confused. "No, I don't—I don't know who Octavia is, but I've been looking for you for a long time, and—look, you don't have to believe me. I know it's sudden, and sounds like a load of bullshit—but I swear, I'm telling the truth; you're my son."

And suddenly, Bellamy saw it. He saw his nose, and his chin dimple, all staring back at him. Rosauro was a little shorter than he was, but he had his same build, and the same dark curls.

He shut the door. He couldn't deal with this right now. His brain was going to explode.

"Excuse me?" Rosauro called. "Should I come back later?"

He leaned against the door, head in his hands. _Maybe I'm having a mental break down_ , he thought hopefully. Anything would be better than having the father who abandoned him show up on his doorstep.

"I'm staying at the Mount Weather Inn, if you suddenly feel like talking." Rosauro said, before Bellamy heard his footsteps leading away from the door.

He bounded to the front window, pulling back the curtains just enough to see him drive away. Could he really be his father? Why would he show up, after all this time?

 _It doesn't matter. He abandoned you, he's not worth worrying over._ He nodded to himself, making a point, and stalked back to the living room. He was going to push Rosauro Santos out of his mind, and never think about him again.

(It was easier said than done.)

\---

Octavia flopped down next to him on the couch. "So you and Clarke, huh?"

His eyebrows almost sprung off his face. "She told you?"

"Nope." She said, smug. "But you just did."

"Yeah, well." He busied himself the controller. "There's not much to tell. It's over now."

"Is that why you guys have been not-so-subtly jumping down each other's throats?" She raised her eyebrows, disapprovingly.

He stared at her, then shook his head. "Shouldn't you be on my case about _Echo_ , not Clarke? She's the one I've been cheating on for months."

Octavia snuggled closer. "Yeah, but I'm guessing she did something equally as shitty to push you to it."

"And why do you say that?"

She patted his knee. "Because you're too good of a person to do it for no reason."

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, whatever."

"So?"

"So, what?"

" _So_ —" she shoved him. "—what'd she do?"

"Oh. She's been, um—sleeping with her boss?" It came out a question, even though it definitely happened. He saw entirely too much tongue action all those months ago for it not to be real.

Octavia fumed. "I always knew she was no good. I _knew_ —from the moment I saw her." She shook her head, then turned to him. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, actually." He turned up the corner of his mouth. "It's just—we weren't supposed to be together. It wasn't ever going to be me and her, you know? I might not have seen it then, but I sure as hell see it now."

She nestled against him once more. "When did you become so philosophical?"

He splayed his arms. "I've been trying to tell you how awesome I am."

She pinched him, and he curled his arm around her. He worried his lip. "My dad came and saw me yesterday."

She got up so fast she smoked his chin with her chin. "Sorry. But? Excuse me? Are you sure it was him? What did he say? How did he find you? Why after all this time—?"

He laughed. "Ok, easy. We didn't talk that much. He basically said I was his son, and then I shut the door in his face."

"How polite of you. Did he at least introduce himself?"

"Rosauro Santos."

"What about where he was staying?"

"Over at Mount Weather." He gestured in that general direction.

She nodded, and then she was typing furiously on her phone. In less than five minutes, she was holding it up to her ear and telling him to give her a minute. "Hello, can you connect me to Rosauro Santos, please?"

He gasped. "Octavia, _no_ —" he grabbed for the phone, but she darted out of his reach.

She ran to the kitchen, and he chased after her. They stood at opposite ends of the island, her completely calm, while he was having a nervous breakdown. "Hello, Rosauro?" She said. "Yes, hi. My name is Octavia—yes, that's right, Bellamy's Octavia." She raised her eyebrows at Bellamy before continuing. "I was just wondering if you were free for lunch with him tomorrow. How about where you're staying? Yes? Perfect. He'll see you at noon. Bye. Yes, you too. Bye."

She hung up, smiling. "He seems nice."

He crossed his arms. "And apparently I'm seeing him at noon?"

"Yes. Make sure you wear something nice."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Octavia, did you ever stop to think that maybe I didn't want to see him?"

She frowned, biting into an apple. "Why wouldn't you want to see him? I think this will be good for you. Focus on some of the good drama in your life for a while."

"He abandoned me!" He shouted. "He abandoned mom! He's not a good person, and I have no interest in hearing what he has to say."

She rolled her eyes. "You don't actually _know_ that he did anything."

"That's what mom said."

"She also said she slept with George Clooney." She pointed out, and he crossed his arms. "Go tomorrow, and if you still think he's full of it, you never have to see him again." She stepped closer, and touched his shoulder. "But you should at least give him a chance."

He scowled. "It doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Of course not. That just wouldn't be you."

\---

He arrived at Mount Weather at five after twelve, dressed in a black t-shirt and a dark wash pair of jeans. He did his best to school his features into a nonchalant gaze, but he wasn't sure he was pulling it off. He was _nervous_.

Even though he didn't want to care about Rosauro's opinion, he wanted him to like him. He wanted him to wish he had stuck around all those years ago.

Bellamy scanned the seating area, searching, and he saw Rosauro waving at him. He gave a small wave of his own, and felt his heart twist in his chest—he just looked so _hopeful_.

But for what, exactly? Was he hoping to be apart of Bellamy's life? Was he hoping to explain his side of the story? What did this man suddenly show up out of nowhere for? How could Bellamy trust that he was even telling the truth? (Other than the uncanny resemblance that was almost creeping him out.)

"Bellamy!" Rosauro said, standing to shake his hand. He was wearing a navy dress shirt, and dark pants. "I'm so glad you agreed to this."

Bellamy nodded, half smiling, half grimacing. "I'd say the same, but I haven't quite made up my mind about my feelings."

Rosauro nodded. "Of course. I'm not asking for you to let me into your life immediately, or at all, for that matter. I'd just like to talk."

Bellamy sipped his water. "So, talk."

Rosauro sat back, taking a breath. "I met your mother when I was 19, and almost immediately, we were inseparable. Neither of our families wanted anything to do with us, so we confided in each other. Have you ever met someone, that as soon as they're in your life, you can't imagine it without them?"

 _A certain someone comes to mind, yes_. "Sort of." He shrugged.

"That was Aurora and me. I loved her, I wanted to have a life with her, but—"

"Let me guess," Bellamy interrupted, leaning forward. "You got scared when she got pregnant—it was too much for you, you weren't ready, you still had your whole life ahead of you—am I close?"

Rosauro shook his head, almost sadly. "I didn't even have a chance to be scared—your mother didn't tell me that she was pregnant."

He sat back, confusion clouding his brain. He was lying. He had to be lying. "Why would she keep that to herself? What possible reasoning could she have to want to raise a child all on her own?"

He shrugged. "I wish I knew. She kicked me out, told me to never come back if I knew what was good for me. Bellamy—" He leaned forward. "—please believe me when I say, if I had known you were coming, I would have fought harder. I would have stayed, no matter what she said."

He wanted to believe him. He wanted to so _badly_ —but what reason did he have for telling him this? What did he get out of it? "How do you know about me now? Did she tell you?" _And if so, why did it take you so long to find me?_

Rosauro sighed. "Before your mother died, she sent me a letter. She apologized, for not allowing me the chance to see you grow up, said it was something she needed to do on her own. But—she still told me to stay away. She said that you wanted nothing to do with me, and that it would be a waste of my time." He shrugged. "Judging by the way this is going, I'm not so sure she was wrong."

He didn't respond.

"But, I tried. For nine years, I tried to forget that you existed. I obeyed your mother's wishes, and what I thought were yours, too. I stayed away, and I didn't interfere with your life."

Their food had come, but he felt as if his stomach had shrunk. "Fine. I believe you."

Rosauro was delighted. "Really? You do? Just like that?"

Bellamy cut into his steak. "I believe that you didn't know I existed, and that you thought you were doing what I wanted. But that doesn't explain why all of a sudden, you're here now."

He sighed. "It wasn't—planned. I was passing through Ark, with no intentions of staying. I had no idea that you lived here, or I might not have come in the first place. But I was flipping through the paper, and I noticed your name, for that award you won."

He tensed slightly, he had forgotten all about that. It was an award for best written short story, and _Clarke_ had pushed him to do it months ago. Rosauro either didn't notice his discomfort, or was deciding to ignore it. "I saw your name, and I just—I wanted to see you."

He raised his eyebrows. "But you didn't just see me. You came to my _house_ —you agreed to have lunch with me." He gestured vaguely around them.

He nodded. "Well, I guess when I saw you, I wanted to know you."

It sounded so much like a line out of a movie, he nearly gagged. "Let's talk about you a little more, first." He leaned forward. "Do you have a wife?"

"Nope."

"Kids?"

"Not that I know of."

"Well, we both know that doesn't count for much."

Rosauro laughed, even though he hadn't meant to make a joke. It showed he was comfortable, and he didn't want him to know that. "What do you do for a living?"

He sipped his water. "I'm a writer, actually."

 _So I got that from you_. He shuddered, it was strange, seeing where all of these little things that he did came from. "What is it that you write?"

He shrugged. "Non-fiction, mostly. History, Greek gods, that kind of thing—even though most people consider that fiction. But I like to write my own stories for fun, sometimes."

History. He wrote _history_. Bellamy felt as if he was having an out of body experience, like he was watching himself have a semi mental breakdown. Rosauro was waiting for more questions, and when Bellamy didn't seem to have anymore, he raised his eyebrows. "Can we talk about you, now?"

Bellamy shrugged. "There's not much to talk about."

Rosauro grinned, and Bellamy saw his own face staring back at him. "I'm sure we can find something." He tapped his chin. "Are you married?"

He resisted the urge to cringe. "Yes. I am."

"Really? And what're they like?"

He noticed how he didn't assume it was a she, but he shook his head. "Let's not talk about her. We're—not in the best place, right now."

Rosauro nodded. "Understood. What about kids?"

He almost choked. "God, no."

"You don't want them?"

"Not now, anyway. I need to get my own life together before I start controlling someone else's."

He ate a piece of lettuce. "I can see that. What about your work?"

He hesitated, considered lying, but—"I'm a history teacher at the local high school."

Rosauro was obviously trying to hide the pleasure he took in this. "And how long have you been working there?"

They talked a while, and Bellamy begrudgingly admitted to himself that Rosauro wasn't a bad guy. Bellamy asked if he could see the letter, and it turned out that Rosauro kept it with him. He wasn't lying, his mom had told him to stay away, and that it was what Bellamy wanted too. Was that what he would have wanted? Would he have wanted Rosauro to come save him and Octavia? He didn't know, and he barely knew what he wanted now.

That was a lie. He wanted things to go back to the way they were before. Before his life had become something off the fucking discovery channel.

\---

(He hadn't seen Clarke in weeks, both of them licking their wounds and basically avoiding each other completely. He wished he could apologize, he wished it wasn't like this, he wished she didn't look at him with absolute disdain in her eyes. But he'd wanted this, he'd wanted emotion, and that was what he got.)

\---

"He wants to come to my party?" Octavia asked, over the phone.

"That's what he said." Bellamy replied, flipping through the tv channels.

"Do you want him to come to my party?"

"I told him it was up to you."

He could just see her levelling him with a look. "Bellamy, come on. He's your dad, what do you want?"

He considered. "I guess it wouldn't be awful for him to meet everyone. Are you sure it's alright—?"

"Another place setting has already been added. Big brother," she added, soft. "I'm behind you no matter what, you know that, right?"

He nodded, smiling a little. "Yeah, I know that."

Octavia's party, so to speak, was her birthday party, and since was turning the humble age of 23, she decided to have a simple sit down dinner. (Bellamy figured the mature aura she was pushing so hard would be gone in about a week.)

\---

"So, tell me," Rosauro said from the passenger side of the jeep. They were driving over to the party together, at Rosauro's request. "Who is going to be at this party?"

Bellamy flipped his signal, and turned left. "Miller, and his boyfriend Monty. Raven and Gina, I'm assuming. Nyko, Indra, Anya, and—Clarke." He silently reprimanded himself for stumbling over her name.

"Anyone we don't like?" He said we as if they were on the same side, and Bellamy supposed that they were.

He pushed _her_ out of his mind. "Miller's a pain in my ass, yes, but we still like him."

Rosauro chattered for the rest of the way, asking questions and seemingly enjoying himself. Bellamy had expected him to be nervous, but if he was, he didn't let on.

Lincoln answered the door. "It's good to see you." He said to Bellamy, pulling him in for a hug. He shook Rosauro's hand. "And it's nice to finally meet you."

Rosauro squinted. "Lincoln, I presume."

Lincoln nodded, smiling, then glanced at Bellamy. He shrugged. "I told him that you were of the big and muscly variety."

Lincoln chuckled, and clapped him on the back as they followed Rosauro into the living room. Bellamy barely had to do any introductions, Rosauro had taken everything he'd said about his friends to heart, and guessed each and every one of them correctly. "Gina and Raven. Bellamy says _almost_ nothing but good things. Miller and Monty, apparently he has you to thank for his extensive knowledge of hangovers? Octavia, _of course_ , happy birthday. And—Clarke." He took her hands in his when he reached her, and Bellamy positively almost died. "He was right—your eyes are absolutely _brilliant_."

She cut her gaze to him, and he adverted his eyes, a flush rising in his cheeks. If he had known Rosauro was going to be such a _blabber mouth_ —he might have thought to keep these things to himself. He avoided Clarke until dinner, and even then he kept his gaze down. He didn't want to fight with her anymore, he just wanted to get through this dinner, and then give Rosauro a stern talking to.

He'd gotten through most of the meal with next no contact, until, of course, they ran out of water. "I'll get it." He said automatically, standing up.

Clarke almost immediately got up as well. "And I'll cut up some more lemons."

He resisted the urge to glare, nearly dropping the pitcher in his haste to get to the kitchen. Clarke was right on his heels.

"My eyes are brilliant, huh?" She said, as soon as they were out of earshot.

He turned on the water, praying that it cooled quickly. "Well, I had to tell him something." He mumbled.

She raised her eyebrows. "And it had to be that?"

He turned towards her, exasperated. "Listen, can we not do this here?"

She put her hands on her hips, lemons temporarily forgotten. "And what is it exactly that we're doing, Bellamy?"

Something in her words made him feel like she was blaming him for where they were, and he would not be taking the fall for this. "You're the one that gave me an ultimatum, Clarke, ok? It was clear that you didn't want—"

"Didn't want what? You're the one who walked out, not me." There was a slight tremor in her voice.

He gripped the pitcher so hard he was afraid it might have broken, but he turned away, filled it up, and walked back out.

To where everyone was staring at him.

Clarke emerged a second later. "I've got the lemons—" She cut herself off, when she also noticed no one was talking.

Of course, if everyone in the room didn't know already, they knew now.

They both sat down, and awkwardly, conversations started again. He felt shame burning him up from the inside, and his stomach had managed to completely twist itself into a mess of knots. They had been so _careful_ —and now not only did everyone know what had happened, but they also knew that they had fought.

And just friends didn't fight like that.

Normally, he would stay and help clean up, but he couldn't take anymore staring. He stood as soon as dessert was finished, thanked Octavia and Lincoln, and then hauled Rosauro out of his chair.

He flipped through the radio stations, each one more staticky than the last. Finally, he gave up, slouching back in his seat and glaring at the road.

"So that's your wife?"

His head snapped to Rosauro. "Who? _Clarke_? Absolutely not."

Rosauro cocked his head. "But you love her." It bothered Bellamy that it wasn't a question.

"No, I don't—it's not—" He huffed. "She is engaged to someone else, and I am married to someone else. We are not— _in love._ " He stumbled over the words, maybe he should just never talk again. Because all it seemed to do was make his life evermore shittier.

"Well," Rosauro said, his voice gentle. "All I'm saying is? If you're mother and I had fought like that, maybe things would have gone differently for us."

He didn't reply. He couldn't. Because he had always known, deep down, that he loved Clarke. He'd always thought it was in friendliness, before they started sleeping together. And then he'd thought he'd simply gotten too attached, and was afraid for when it inevitably stopped, and so he pushed her away before that could happen.

But now, even after all of this absolute crap had happened between them, he still felt his heart race when he thought about her. His palms still sweat when she walked into a room. And most of all, he'd go back to the way it was in a heartbeat, if it meant he could stop pretending that he hated her. He always knew that he loved Clarke, he had just been too much of a coward to admit it.

He dropped Rosauro off at Mount Weather, new information sloshing around in his brain painfully.

How was he going to fix this? How was he supposed to ask for her forgiveness, when he still wasn't sure that he forgave her? How had they managed to ruin everything they had in such a short amount of time?

He drove around for hours, going back and forth between completely ignoring his revelation, or just finally telling her. (It's not like their relationship could get _worse_.)

Eventually, he went to sleep, set on calling her in the morning. He had no idea what the fuck he was going to say, but he was done dealing with this on his own.

\---

"Hi, Clarke. Yes, it is me. Why am I calling? Well—truthfully, I—no, no, no."

He paced back and forth, glaring at the phone from where it sat on the counter. He had been rehearsing what he was going to say to Clarke for almost an _hour_ , and all he had so far was "Hi, Clarke". And even that he wasn't so sure about.

"Fuck." He groaned, pulling at his hair. "Fuck. You know what? Fuck it." He stalked to the phone, and dialled her number.

"Don't pick up, don't pick up, don't pick up—" he chanted under his breath.

"You've reached Clarke Griffin's phone, you know what to do."

He breathed a sigh of relief—voice mail was a gift from the _gods_ —and waited for the beep. "Clarke, it's Bellamy. I think we should talk about the other night. Call me when you get this."

He hit end, feeling satisfied with his message. But—something felt off. Clarke always had her phone with her, it was rare that she didn't answer it.

_What are you saying? Why would she pick up a phone call from you? She doesn't want to talk to you._

He tried to rationalize it, but no matter what he told himself, the sinking feeling wouldn't go away. He was pacing again, debating whether or not to leave well enough alone.

He huffed, and slung his jacket on, stomping out the door to his jeep.

Graham's aggressively orange sports car wasn't in the driveway, or else he would have turned around completely. Cautiously, he knocked on the door, remembering the first time he came here. He wondered what would have happened if he hadn't of went upstairs.

He heard footsteps, and then the door opened just a crack.

One blue eye stared out at him, and the sinking feeling intensified. "Hey." He said.

"Hi." She didn't meet his gaze. "Um, what are you doing here?"

He stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, feeling awkward and out of place and honestly _unwanted_. He'd known that Clarke wasn't going to welcome him with open arms, but he hadn't expected this. "I, um—I called you."

She glanced beside her, assumedly where her phone was. "Oh, I turned my phone off."

She hadn't done that since he'd known her. It seemed like she was _hiding_. What could she be hiding from? "Clarke, is everything ok?"

She nodded, even though it was obvious nothing was ok. The right side of her face was still completely hidden behind the door. "Clarke," He said, hesitantly pushing the door until she was revealed.

His stomach jumped up into his throat, and he thought he might have been sick on the spot.

Her right eye was black and swelling, there was a cut above her eyebrow and her lip was split. He didn't know what was stronger; his guilt, or his rage.

" _He_ did this." It wasn't a question.

She nodded, still not meeting his gaze. She was gripping the door, as if it was grounding her. A silent tear slipped down her cheek, and he moved to touch her without thinking. She took a step back, and he dropped his hand.

He swallowed. "What—what happened?"

She stepped away so he could step inside. She closed the door, and stepped into the living room, curling up on the couch. She didn't offer him anything, and he didn't think he'd be able to keep anything down anyway.

He sat on the chair adjacent to the end of the couch she wasn't sitting on, and waited for her to say something.

He could barely stand to look at her, he couldn't believe he had dared to lay a _hand_ on her—

An image popped into his head. "When you got back from that cruise last summer, you had a bruise on your hip. And you said it wasn't from him, not like that. But—"

She rested her chin on her knees, looking more childlike than he'd ever seen. "He'd suspected I was unfaithful even then, and to prove it, he'd tried to sleep with me, knowing I wouldn't want to. He got—upset, to say the least."

He gripped the edge of the chair, trying not to pass out. "What happened this time?" His voice was low, unearthly calm, but that wasn't how he felt on the inside.

She hugged her knees tighter. "I was upset yesterday, after Octavia's party, and when I wouldn't tell him why—" she paused, taking a breath. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. "He suspected you had something to do with it."

He felt all the air whoosh out of him. He gripped the leather of his seat so hard he thought it might tear. His limbs had gone like jelly, and it was all he could do to keep himself sitting up right. "So you're saying," He ground out, more mad at himself than anything. "He beat your face in because of me."

She unfolded her legs, already shaking her head. "No, Bellamy—that's not—"

Abruptly, he stood. His hands were shaking, and his knees felt as if they were made of rubber. He did this, it was his fault, he was the reason Clarke couldn't leave her goddamn house. He felt on the edge of hysterics. "I can't—I can't be here. You can't be near me— _goddammit_ , what if he comes home? Clarke, I have to—"

Suddenly, she was right in front of him, and placing her hands on either side of his face. He loosed a breath, revelling in how good it felt to have her touch him like that after all this time. But guilt flooded him again, and he pulled away.

He faced away from her, head in his hands. His voice was scratchy when he finally spoke again. "Why did you let me treat you like that?"

She came up behind him, and he turned to her, noticing how she was trying not to cry. "You didn't know—and I couldn't tell you, because I knew you'd blame yourself." She looked down, her voice small. "And I didn't want you to pity me."

He crossed his arms. "What are we going to do then?"

She looked up, surprised. "What?"

"Well, you can't stay here. Where are you going to live? When are you going to call your mom and tell her the wedding is off—"

"Woah, woah, woah." Clarke said, frowning and stepping back. "Who said I'm doing any of that?"

He furrowed his eyebrows. "Clarke—you're not staying with him. You _can't_."

"I think I'll be the one to decided whether or not I stay."

He felt his hysteria rising again, threatening to pull him under. He was barely keeping his head above water as it was, but if she was planning on _choosing_ to remain in danger—

He kept his voice level, he didn't want her to know how sensitive he was about this. "He gave you a black eye, he split your _lip_ —"

"I know." She said, flat. "I was there."

He exhaled, not knowing how he was going to help if she wasn't going to let him. "Clarke. Are you really going to stay with someone who pushes you to cheat, and then—" He swallowed, and gestured to her face. "—does this?"

Her face showed almost no emotion, just pure defiance. "I've survived this long. And it was without you."

He raised his eyebrows, then shook his head in disbelief. "Wow. You act like it was _my choice_ to not know."

She raised hers right back. "Wasn't it?"

"You are _un_ believable. I'm just trying to _help_ —"

Her hand was pushing him backwards, while the other was wrenching his coat from its hook. She thrust it into his chest. "I don't want your help, Bellamy. You can't fix this."

She opened the door, and shoved him out of it, giving him a look of pure venom that he matched. When she closed the door, he turned, and vomited gracefully into the bushes.

\---

He couldn't sleep, and he could barely eat.

_You can't fix this. I don't want your help. Wasn't it?_

They kept running through his head, driving him up a wall and making him sick to his stomach on more than one occasion. Had he chose to ignore the signs? Disregard how Clarke had been acting? He'd written off that bruise all those months ago, hadn't even asked how it _happened_ —let alone noticed how weird she behaved about it.

His mother had been through this exact thing so many times when he was growing up, and she'd acted the same way. How could he not have seen it? How could he not have suspected?

It was obvious now, why Clarke had wanted a distraction. She needed him, and he'd left without a second thought.

He'd said that no one deserved her, and now he was on that list too.

\---

He isolated himself, too ashamed and on edge to bother with keeping up social graces. He went to work, he came home, he went to bed—repeat.

Octavia and Miller attempted to visit him, threatening affection and a good time, but he refused to leave his couch if he wasn't getting paid for it. They left him alone, and feeling even worse about how he treated people he cared about. He knew they were only trying to help, but he didn't want it.

Eventually, it was Rosauro who set him straight.

He knocked at his door, and Bellamy shouted, "No one's home!"

He heard the door opening, and he slouched farther into the couch. He suspected that he didn't look that fantastic, considering it was a long weekend, and he hadn't shaved in three days. He'd caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and he almost didn't recognize himself. His cheeks were sunken in, and his beard was patchy, and his eyes seemed to be permanently glazed over.

Rosauro didn't seem fazed. "I see you've been spending your time wisely."

Bellamy grunted in response, he didn't know how much Rosauro knew, but he wasn't about to give anything away. His dad sat on the chair, obviously waiting for Bellamy to explain why he'd been awol lately. When he didn't offer anything up, Rosauro took to speaking himself.

"I've been talking to Nathan—"

"You've been talking to Miller?" Bellamy almost flew out of his chair. He barely talked to Miller, and they were best friends.

"Yes, we've been discussing your issue—"

"You've been talking to Miller about _me_?" He'd never thought he'd ever have use for the word flabbergasted, but that definitely the best word for the situation.

Rosauro levelled him with a look. "I don't remember you being so disruptive." He blew out a breath, and continued. "As I was saying, we've been discussing your issue, and I think we've come to a conclusion."

 _Oh, goody._ "Oh, well then. Please, enlighten me on how I should be living my life."

Rosauro's expression didn't change. "When you found out Echo was cheating on you, you were upset for what? A day? Barely?"

He crossed his arms. "My memory is a little fuzzy, but I certainly don't remember you being here during that." He mumbled. Who did Miller think he was? Spilling all his secrets in hopes of helping, it was despicable—and possibly the nicest thing Miller had ever done.

"But now," Rosauro continued. "You've been torn up over Clarke for months, unable to do anything aside from going to work and barely sleeping. Doesn't that say something?"

Bellamy tipped back the rest of his beer. "That I'm pathetic, maybe."

Rosauro shook his head fervently. "No. Don't you see? The fact that the woman you married cheating doesn't even bother you, but someone you haven't even known for a year, has you feeling crappy enough to shut anyone you care about out completely."

"Doesn't that set a great standard for our relationship." He said flatly, standing and dumping his pile of blankets onto the floor.

Rosauro followed him into the kitchen, set on making Bellamy realize what an idiot he was being. As if he didn't already _know_. "Bellamy, can you just listen? You're in love with Clarke, you need to tell her before it's too late—"

"It's already too late, dad!" He spun on him, slamming his empty bottle onto the counter. "It was too late before we met, it was too late the second I walked out her door without explaining why, it's always been _too damn late_."

Rosauro was stunned. "If you truly think that, you're not the man I thought you were."

He left, leaving Bellamy breathless and feeling more alone than ever.

\---

Rosauro was right, of course, Bellamy loved Clarke more than he had ever loved Echo. He'd gotten over Echo's betrayal in no time, while it'd taken him months to forgive Clarke—because he simply cared _more_. It made him feel like a total asshole, because he'd managed to fall out of love with Echo so quickly. And he felt like he'd wasted so much of his life on someone who was never planning on being in his life forever.

His four year anniversary was approaching, and he wanted to be a free man before then.

He waited for Echo to come home, expecting to be dreading it, but he was restless. He just wanted this chapter of his life to be over.

She came home after nearly a month away, and barely glanced in his direction. How had he been able to live like this for nearly four years? He couldn't even remember the last true conversation they'd had.

He waited until she showered, and arrived back in the living room to unleash the words that had been teasing him for months. "I want a divorce." They slipped so easily off his tongue, he didn't know why he hadn't done it sooner.

Echo, on the other hand, clearly wasn't expecting this. "What are you talking about?"

He glanced up at her from his chair, a beer bottle in his hand. Surely she'd think he'd been drinking, and that he didn't know what he was saying. "You're a lawyer, Echo," He said, not allowing any emotion to seep into his voice. "You've dealt with these things before."

She crossed her arms. "I have. But normally there's a reason for them."

He cocked his head, not believing that she was still playing dumb. "Don't you think I know what you've been doing all these months? Going on 'business' trips, not coming home for _weeks_ on end—haven't you noticed that this is the first conversation we've had in almost a year?"

She shook her head. "Bellamy, I don't know what you're talking about—"

He stood, anger flooding his senses. "You've been sleeping with someone else for months, Echo! And don't even _think_ about denying it."

She stared at the floor. "How long have you've known?"

"Since last April." He said, it suddenly hitting him that it had been a year since that night in the parking lot.

"And you didn't say anything then?" She almost shouted. "You slept with me, knowing that I was unfaithful? Why would you do that?"

"Because I didn't want to have to deal with this!" He gestured between them. "I didn't want to believe that'd I been so awful towards you that I'd pushed you to cheat."

She shook her head. "You didn't push me to do anything—I chose to step out on you regardless of how you treated me. We were never right for each other, and you know that."

He crossed his arms. "I want you moved out by the end of the week. Split everything down the middle except for the house, and there won't be an issue."

She exhaled. "Fine."

She gathered a few of her things, stuffing them into a duffle bag. She was gone within ten minutes, and he should have felt something like remorse, but all he felt was freedom.

\---

"God," Octavia groaned after he recounted the story to her. "What ever made you propose to her in the first place?"

He laughed, then shrugged. "It was a spur of the moment kind of thing, I hadn't even been looking at rings. She was—to put it lightly—a safety net. Someone with a cushy job and a nice face." He frowned. "I am such an _asshole_ , aren't I?"

Octavia made a noise. "Not really. You were just looking out for yourself. You know, your response was very animal kingdom of you. You found a mate who would help you survive, and you latched onto her before anyone else could snatch her up." She dug into her ice cream bowl, muttering to herself. "Not that I'd know why anyone would actually _want_ to do that."

\---

Echo had moved in with her boss before her signature on the divorce papers had even dried, and Bellamy couldn't have cared less. She agreed to give him the house, and they split everything else down the middle. It was a fairly clean separation, as divorces go.

He was feeling better than he had in months, so when the hospital called to tell him that Clarke had been in an accident, it was safe to say he was knocked completely off course.

He was already yanking on his jacket. "What hospital are you calling from?

The young man on the other end shuffled some papers. "Ark Memorial."

He paused for a moment. "Why did you call me?"

The man seemed to pause, too. "You're listed as her emergency contact, sir."

His heart seemed to stutter for a second, before resuming to its scheduled beats. "I—I'll be there as soon as possible."

He hung up, and ran towards the jeep. It was raining, soaking him before he even reached the door, he flicked his hair out of his eyes, and pressed the pedal to the floor.

For a fleeting moment, he was considering the possibility that _he_ had done something bad enough to land her in the hospital—and he pushed those thoughts away as quickly as he could.

He arrived at Ark Memorial, splashing in the puddles all the way to the front door. Absolutely sopping wet, he slid to a stop at the front desk.

"Clarke Griffin?" He asked, breath ragged.

The receptionist tapped away on her keyboard. "Room 313."

"Thank you." He said over his shoulder, as he was already on his way to the elevator.

Three floors and several anxious button pushes later, he was striding towards Clarke's room, unease stirring in his gut. He didn't know what to expect, the nurse hadn't specified what kind of state she'd be in—he didn't even think to ask what the accident had been. Clarke obviously made a stellar decision in making him her emergency contact.

That was still sitting in the back of his mind. Why him? And how long had it been him? But then he was pushing open the door, and basically every thought flew out of his head.

She was either asleep or unconscious, and her previous bruises had healed. There was a new cut below her right eye, and her hand was in a cast. She was extremely pale, and it took all his strength just to get himself to the chair beside her.

He felt himself start to blubber, and he put his head down on the bed, breathing deep. _She's fine, she's right here, she's_ right _here._

He sat up, and brought his knees up to his chest, even if it was awkward in the small chair. He stared at her still form, and at some point he must have fallen asleep, because then he was waking up to a nurse checking Clarke's vitals.

"Oh, I'm sorry, honey," She half whispered. "I didn't mean to wake you."

He shook his head, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. It was still dark out. "It's fine, I—how is she?"

Her smile was soft. "She's going to be fine. A mild concussion and some bruised ribs are the worst of it. She'll likely be cleared to go home in the morning."

He exhaled, feeling some tension drain out of his body. "What happened?"

She was bandaging Clarke's cut now. "She said it was raining pretty hard, and then a bicycle came out of nowhere, and she lost control of the vehicle trying to avoid it. 'Said it was her fault for driving in a storm like that."

He nodded, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. "Sounds like her."

The nurse smiled, and left quietly, leaving him again to his own thoughts. What was Clarke doing out in that storm? What was so important that she couldn't have waited for it to pass?

\---

His neck was on _fire_. He'd slept slouched, with his head resting against the back of his chair, and now he was paying for it.

"Bellamy?"

His eyes sprang open, and found Clarke staring at him. He sat up, cracking his neck and doing his best to seem emotionally unattached. He wanted to make this as little a deal as possible, and then get _out_.

"What are you doing here?" She pushed.

He blinked a couple times to clear the glaze from his eyes. "The hospital called me."

She was confused for about another second, and then seemed to remember. " _Oh_ —well, I—"

He raised his eyebrows. "Forgot to mention that I'm your emergency contact?"

She sat up more, and winced. He resisted the urge to touch her. "It was before—everything." She explained. "I always meant to change it—"

"Why was I even it in the first place?" He rested his elbows on his knees, face placid.

She sighed. "Because my mom lived too far away to be any use, and Raven had enough to worry about, and Graham was always away on business—but you, you were always there." She twisted her fingers in the blanket. "I knew I could count on you."

In the movies, this would be the scene where he'd melt, and confess his undying love while a crappy pop song played in the background. In the movies, this was where they began their happily ever after.

But if this were a movie, he wouldn't be the reason her fiancé abused her, and he wouldn't be recently divorced. She wouldn't want just a distraction, and he'd be courageous enough to tell her how he felt without worrying about reciprocation.

He stood, ignoring the way her face fell. "That's me—Mr. Reliable."

He threw some clothes he'd bought from the gift shop onto the bed. "Put those on—carefully—the Doctor said you could go home whenever you woke up."

He turned around as she changed, and they didn't speak a word out to the car, or on the way home.

She had to be in a wheelchair, because of her ribs, and it felt uncomfortable as he wheeled her inside her house. He moved to help her from her wheelchair to the bed, but she put a hand on his arm to stop him.

"You don't have to do this," She said. "Help me, I mean."

He took her arm, and put it around his neck, helping her stand. "Well, I don't see anyone else lining up to do it."

He had called in sick earlier that day, and so he stayed until she went to sleep. They had managed to say all of four words to each other, and he found himself stupidly wanting to fix it—as if he wasn't the one who broke it in the first place.

\---

Clarke's birthday came and went, with him staying home, constantly refreshing facebook as Octavia uploaded pictures incessantly. Coincidentally, her birthday landed on April 12, marking two months exactly from when they had stopped seeing each other.

When did his life become such a shit hole? He was a 26-year-old divorcé, ridiculously in love with someone he could never have, drinking at 2 in the afternoon to drown his feelings. He had hit rock bottom, in fact, he was below rock bottom. He had managed to surpass the lowest anyone could possibly get. (He was going to pretend it was an accomplishment.)

\---

Another two months passed, and Octavia had apparently, had enough.

She stomped through his living room, throwing empty beer bottles and garbage into a bag that she dragged around behind her. He had tried to stop her, and regretted it pretty much immediately, so now he was just simply watching the madness ensue.

She dumped the remaining beer in his fridge down the sink, ignoring his protests about how he had _paid_ for that, and finally, shoved him into the shower.

Summer vacation had started about a week ago, and funnily enough, that was also the last time he had bothered to leave the house—he was attempting the world record.

Octavia was pacing in the living room by the time he finished, and he sat down on the couch once more, waiting to hear what words of wisdom she had thought up today. (It was becoming quite the occurrence.)

"Bellamy, you know I love you," She began, still pacing. "But this shell of a person you've become? It isn't who you are. You aren't someone who mopes around, or drinks before they have breakfast, or just _accepts_ the way things are. You're someone who fixes things, you're someone who sets their mind to a task and _finishes_ it—not someone who feels sorry for themselves, and punishes _everyone_ by not showering for days."

He ran his tongue along his teeth, his huff of laughter humourless. "I'm someone who fixes things, huh? That's ironic." He couldn't even begin to list the amount of things he'd been able to ruin, and that was just this _year_.

Octavia pinched the bridge of her nose. "Look, I understand that you blame yourself for what Graham did to Clarke, but it wasn't—"

He was on his feet in an instant. " _Don't tell me it wasn't my fault_!" He roared, sick and tired of everyone making excuses for him. " _I_ am the one who started sleeping with a woman who was spoken for, _I_ am the one who let it continue for months, and _I_ am the one who aggravated her fiancé to the point where he felt he needed to beat her to relieve his frustration!" His chest heaved, and his sister was stunned. "It's _my_ fault, Octavia, and you're wasting your breath trying to convince me otherwise."

He felt like doing anything but sit, but he sat back down on the couch, flexing his fingers to have something to focus on.

Octavia shook her head. "My _god_ , you can be so fucking dense sometimes."

He snapped his head up to retort, but she was just getting started. "You think that if it weren't for you, Graham would be the perfect guy for Clarke? You think that he wouldn't have found someone else to blame so that he could get away with hitting her? He's a _bad guy_ , Bellamy—with or without you in the picture. You're not to be blamed for his incapability to see right from wrong."

He exhaled, and he could see what she was saying—maybe even begin to believe it, but— "Why won't she let me help her?" His voice broke at the end, but he was too interested in the answer to notice.

Octavia sighed, and sat down beside him, taking his hands in her own. "Because she thinks that she can handle it on her own—she doesn't want hand outs. We've all tried, big brother, she just has to figure it out in her own time."

He leaned his head against hers, his way of saying sorry. "I just hope she figures it out soon."

She slouched down, sighing. "Me too."

\---

 _The wedding is tomorrow_ , the thought was so sudden and disturbing that it woke him up, and kept him awake.

"It doesn't matter," He muttered to himself. "She's choosing to go through with this. She's choosing a career over a life, and you have to be okay with that."

But he couldn't. He tossed and he turned for what felt like hours, trying not to think about their wedding night, before he sat up. He wanted to say that the ache in his chest was for what Clarke was giving herself up for, but there was more to it. If he didn't do something, he would lose her completely—he'd never be able to mend what they'd become—and that thought alone drove him out from under the covers.

"This is insane. _You're_ insane. I cannot _believe_ I'm doing this—" He grumbled, fastening his seatbelt.

It was three o'clock in the morning, and he was on his way to his ex-mistress' house. There had to be a special word for his type of madness.

He pulled into her driveway, and Graham's stupidly expensive sports car was nowhere to be seen. That made sense—with the whole you-can't-see-the-bride-the-day-of-the-wedding-or-else-someone-will-die thing.

His hands were shaking so bad that he could barely ring the doorbell, and when he heard footsteps, he considered diving into the bushes and pretending he was never there. But of course, he couldn't do that, because his jeep was _right there_.

Clarke opened the door, rubbing her eyes and swearing under her breath. All her visible bruises had healed, and the cast off her hand had been taken off. Her eyes widened when she saw him and—was she smiling at _him_ like that?

"Bellamy," She said, the smile ever growing. "What are you doing here?"

He clasped his hands in front him, feeling blood rush in his ears so loud he could hardly think. He thought his heart might escape from his chest. He inhaled, "Clarke, you can't get married tomorrow."

She frowned. "What? I'm not—"

He didn't hear her. "You can't get married because I'm in love with you, and I know I don't show it very well and that I'm a fucking disaster waiting to happen when it comes to feelings. And I know that you think you can handle this on your own, and I know you can, too but—you shouldn't _have_ to. You don't need to go through this alone unless you absolutely can't stand the sight of me, and if that's true then I'll go but—I'd never stop waiting for you. I've been waiting for the timing to be right ever since I met you and I finally realized that if I kept waiting, there would be no time left. Clarke—I'm begging you, _please_ , don't get married tomorrow."

She shrugged. "Okay."

He furrowed his brows. "Pardon me?"

She laughed. "Bellamy, I called off the wedding _two weeks_ ago. Graham moved out last week." She was positively grinning now. "But I'm glad to hear that you've been waiting to word vomit all over me since we met."

He was grinning now, too. "It hasn't been _that_ long." His words weren't nearly as detached as he'd planned.

But then he was stepping towards her, and taking her face in his hands, and finally, _finally_ , kissing her. It felt—different, than all the others ones had, something deeper than desire was running between them now. She ran her hands up his back and into his hair, and _jesus_ , he had missed the way she ruined his hair.

He was thinking about getting her naked, when he remembered what time it was. He pulled back, and she chased his mouth. He laughed, almost giddy, and stroked her jaw with his thumb. "We don't have to—do anything, tonight. It's really late and—"

She grabbed the front of his shirt, tugging him farther inside so she could slam the door shut with her foot. Still grasping his collar, she pulled him down to her level. "If you love me, you will shut up."

He grinned, and kissed her again. She sighed into it, then jumped, and he caught her. She wrapped her legs around his waist as they climbed the stairs, him palming her ass.

She broke away about half way up. "I love you, too, by they way." She said, like an afterthought.

"Oh, good." He said, pecking her. "I was really worried."

She nipped playfully at his bottom lip in response.

They reached the bedroom, and he set her down so they could both take their clothes off—he almost tripped trying to get his pants off. When all clothing had been removed, they just stared for a moment, taking each other in after all this time.

Then all at once, they were clawing at each other again, desperate to touch every square inch of each other. He guided her backwards towards the bed, intending for her to sit down so he could get his mouth on her—but she spun them around at the last second, shoving at his shoulders until he was the one splayed before her.

Smirking wickedly, she sank to her knees, taking him in her mouth.

He jerked at the contact, gripping the sheets and doing his best to keep his hips still, while she bobbed her mouth up and down on his dick. She held the base with one hand—the other one was otherwise occupied—and did something _amazing_ with her tongue.

His eyes rolled back in his head as he came, and she swallowed every last bit of it. He had barely finished before he was pulling her up roughly from the floor, and climbing in between her legs.

He stroked her lightly with his fingers, watching as her legs trembled with each touch. He urged her through three orgasms—one with his fingers, two with his tongue—before positioning himself over top of her, and sliding inside.

" _Fuck_." He groaned, nipping at her ear. "You always feel so good after you come."

She hugged him to her chest as he started to move. "You're not half bad, yourself."

He rolled his eyes, and snapped his hips into hers harder. It didn't take long for a string of curse words to start rolling off each of their tongues, each other's names intertwined.

He sagged against her, completely spent, and she happily petted his hair until he found the strength to roll off of her.

She curled up against him immediately, tangling their legs together and resting her head against his chest. He didn't think he'd ever felt so _good_.

"I think it really started for me when I went on that cruise, last summer." She began, tracing designs over his bare chest. "I couldn't stop comparing him to you; how he acted, what he said, how he said it—everything paled in comparison to the way you were. I didn't stop to think that I had feelings for you, of course, I just thought I'd imprinted on you or something. You were one of my first friends here, and I just missed you." She glanced at him. "Little did I know."

He nuzzled her hair. "Keep going."

She smiled. "I didn't realize how I felt until I lied about it—when I told you all I wanted was a distraction. I was lying straight through my teeth, because I was scared out of my mind about what would happen if you knew the truth." She shook her head, ruefully, and he squeezed her. "I tried to suffocate my feelings, telling myself that if I slept with you just _one_ more time—everything would be fine.

"But then you walked out, and I was completely heartbroken."

He kissed her neck, heart twisted up in his chest. "I'm sorry."

She turned her head so they could kiss properly, a reminder that all of that was behind them. "You were tired of waiting for me to realize what was right in front of me—I don't blame you for leaving." She found his hand, and continued. "That was when I realized that what I was feeling wasn't just some crush—I really loved you, and I didn't know how I ever going to tell you.

"I wish I would have told you that day you came over, but I knew you would have shut me down on principle—because of the Graham thing—so I pushed you away, yet again, and let you think I didn't want you. Even though—" She flipped onto her stomach, facing him, and grinning. "—it was eating me up inside."

He tucked her hair behind her ear, smiling too, but his stomach was doing somersaults. He regretted ever putting her through any of this.

She kissed his chest, bringing him back. Her voice was quiet when she spoke again. "That night I got into the accident—I was coming to find you. I wanted this thing between us to be over, and I wanted to tell you, once and for all how I felt."

He felt a tear leak out onto his cheek, and she brushed it away. "I took it as a sign, that bicycle. I obviously wasn't meant to be with you, and the universe was working very hard to convince me of that."

He stroked her cheek. "It did a pretty shitty job, if you ask me."

"Shh," She said, tangling their fingers together. "I'm not done yet."

"Oh, well I am _sorry_. Please continue."

She stuck out her tongue, and then obliged. "Two weeks ago, Rosauro came to see me. Yes, your dad— _stop interrupting._ He said that you had been moping around for ages, and that he was sick of it. He told me to either kiss and make up, or cut you loose completely."

He snorted. "He's a no bullshit guy, my father."

"Well, it worked. I called my mom, and told her everything, and she apologized for ever introducing us, then she had her lawyers take care of it all. I was free of Graham, and my mother was supportive of my career, I should have been the happiest girl in the world. But—"

"I think this is going to be my favourite part." He said, smacking a kiss to her hand, quick.

She laughed. " _But_ , I didn't have you. Octavia told me that you had divorced Echo, and the part of me that wasn't drowning in guilt was pretty fucking ecstatic about it."

He kissed her hand again, this time to reassure her. "Her and I were doomed from the start, so, you can't take all the credit."

She nodded, and cleared her throat. "I'm getting to the best part. I had nearly everything in order; Graham was gone, you were available, my mom and I were on good terms, but somehow, I still couldn't bring myself to pick up the phone and call you. I still wasn't sure how you would feel, were you moping about our friendship, or because you wanted something more?"

He smirked. "You know, I think you're the only person I know who's more insecure than I am."

She hit his chest lightly, clearly and deeply offended. "I am _so_ much more confident than you!"

He settled back against the pillows, completely unaffected. "And yet, who showed up at who's doorstep?"

She sighed happily, and snuggled against him once more. "Which brings me to the end of the story; the knight and shining armour slew the mighty dragon—"

"Otherwise known as the doorbell."

"—rescued the princess from a terrible and tragic death—"

"AKA her inability to own up to her emotions."

"—confessed his undying and never ending affection, and made sweet, _sweet_ love to her, overtop of the dead dragon's rotting corpse."

He barked out a laugh, and flipped them so he was on top. "And guess what?"

She grinned. "What?"

"He's about to do it again."

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ps graham is a piece of shit from the books


End file.
